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23  WSST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSVER.N.Y.  14580 

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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductlons  historiques 

1980 


Technical  and  Bibliograohic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
orid^ina!  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


□ 
D 
D 


n 


□ 


G 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommag^e 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurde  et/ou  pelliculie 


□    Cover  title  missing/ 
Le 


titre  de  couverture  manque 


Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  g6ographiques  en  couleur 


Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


□    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


D 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serr^e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  da  la  marge  intdrieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  so  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajoutdes 
iors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t&  filmdes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppldmentaires; 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
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modification  dans  la  methods  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquds  ci-dessous. 


□    Coloured  pages/ 
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n 
n 


n 


Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 

Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaur6es  et/ou  pellicul6es 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  d6color6es,  tachetdes  ou  piqudes 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d6tach§es 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 


I      I    Quality  of  print  varies/ 


Quality  in^gale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
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ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  jnt  6t6  film§es  d  nouveau  de  iagon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


Q 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmd  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu6  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

y 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

lils 

du 

difier 

Line 

lage 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Harold  Campbell  Vaughan  Memorial  Library 
Acadia  University 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


L'exemplaire  filmA  fut  reproduit  grAce  A  la 
gAnirositi  de: 

Harold  Campbell  Vaughan  Memorial  Library 
Acadia  University 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6x6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  at 
de  la  netteti  de  l'exemplaire  film4,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
fiimage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimde  sont  fiim6s  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film6s  en  commenpant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  -^^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning   "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaltra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film6s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichd,  il  est  film6  d  partir 
de  Tangle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d"images  n6cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


trrata 
to 


pelure, 
m  d 


n 

32X 


1  2  3 


1  2  3 

4  5  6 


A 


8J3  / 


LYRICS,  IDYLS 


AND 


_      ( 


FRAGMENTS 


HY 


JOSEPH    H.  ARMSTRONG 


"  I  reap  the  red  tares  that  I  sow  not, 
And  sow— as  I  cannot  reap." 

"My  heart  is  but  a  purple  song  unsung, 
Save  m  the  pathos  of  a  ininor  part 

Whose  sweeter  chords  arc  clo,,ged  v,  ith  aching  day." 

J.  H.  A. 

— ^©©^^ — 


NEW  YORK 
THE    PUBLISHERS-    PRINTING   COMPANY 

^OS.    120   AND    122    EaST    I4TH    STREET 
1892 


'  ''  I'  .  I 


' '       I 


Copyright,  iSga, 

BY 
A.  L.  M.  (JOTTSCHALK. 


INDEX. 


To  the  Reader,    . 
ToJ.  H.  A., 
Biographical  Sketch,  . 

To  my  Jlother,  . 
Florida— A  Fragment, 
Song— "Life  and  True  Lev 
A  Martial  Ode,  . 
Love  in  the  Market.  . 
Serenade— "  Life  and  I  wei 
Hamadr3'ads, 
Love's  Dirge, 
Despondence, 


e  meet  but  Once," 


III 


at  Ease 


From  "Songs  of  a  Pagan."    Sewanee.  1889. 
"Over  the  White  Sea-foam,"  . 
"Heaven  May  be  Eternal,"      . 
"Sefiorita,  Have  thine  Eyes." 
"Love,  be  thy  Lips  the  Cradle  of  my  Sighs. 
"My  Dream  hath  Fled,  and  its  Airy  Dome. 
"Lips  have  Smiled  till  Smiles  were  Tears." 
To  R.  B.      "Stanch  be  thy  Bark," 
"Life's  Retribution," 


PAGE 

•  7 

•  13 

•  15 

-     19 

.     20 

20 
21 
21 
22 

23 
24 

25 

26 
26 
26 

27 

28 

28 

29 

30 
32 


4g043 


Song— "In    a    Far   Greek    Isle,    where   the   Skies    were 

Blue," 
Kismet,         .... 
What  is  Love?     . 
One  Kiss, and  then?— A  Sonnet, 
Rondel— "A  Woman's  Eyes!     No  Wonde 
To  the  Artist, 
Sonnet  to  the  Sea 
Ode  to  Anacreon 
Fragments,  . 


r,  then. 


Ideal  Woman, 

False  Love, 

Messalina,    . 
The  Shower, 

Storm — Drowning  Visions, 
Sanity — A  Fragment,  . 
Spring— An  Impromptu, 

To .     "I've  seen  Storms  Master  Heav 

Weep," 
Good-night, 
Women  and  Mice, 
Rather  Misplaced, 
Serenade— "O  Music,  Tuneful  Minister  of 

The  Sybarite, 

To  a  Butterfly 

The  Legend  of  the  Lotus-flower, 
An  Answer  to  a  Proposal,  . 
"Moon  and  Rocks"— A  Sonnet,  . 
Chant  de  Nuit— "St.  Augustine," 
"Ergo  Sum"— Lines  upon  the  Sea-shore, 
The  Glow-worm,  .... 


Love," 


en,  until 


She'd 


:>AGB 

34 
35 
36 
37 

38 
40 
40 

41 
42 

42 
43 
44 
46 

47 
49 
50 

52 
53 
54 
55 
57 
58 
63 
65 
68 

71 
72 
74 

77 


/ 


PACK 

73 


Lines  for  Christmas,  1890,   . 

To  a  Living  Preacher  of  Infidelity, 

The  Unseen  Singer,     . 

The  Suicide, 

Memories-A  Study  in  E  Minor, 
Marco  Mi  ale, 
Timoleon's  Love, 

Farewell  Verses.      To "(ih-    w     ^\  .u  ' 

„.  ■        *'"     ^^^'ultl  that  we  could 

Pierce  the  Gloom," 

Appendix.     Farewell  Address  to  an  old  Coatee',       .'        .'  ^^^ 


79 
81 
84 
89 
92 

97 


li 


TO  THE   READFR. 


To  edit  this  little  book  of  verses  has  been  no  easy 
task.  It  soon  became  evident  that  an  unbiased 
criticism  was  impossible.  There  was  ever  present 
the  sympathy  of  friendship,  which  either  attracted 
unduly  or,  when  checked,  became  the  cause  of  undue 
severity  of  judgment.  Hence  I  limited  myself  to  a 
presentation  of  such  poems  as  seemed  likely  to  claim 
the  favor  of  some  reader,  though  not  setting  forth  all 
that  subsists  of  the  fragmentary  work  of  the  poet. 
Pieces  which  it  is  more  than  likely  that  a  few  addi- 
tional years  of  life  would  have  cancelled  are  never- 
theless presented,  for  the  sake  of  some  lines  here 
and  there,  perhaps  some  stanzas,  which  must  have 
been  saved  from  such  a  doom,  and  incorporated 
into  poems  yet  unconceived  and  now  never  to  be 
conceived. 

Is  it  the  true  part  of  a  friend  to  put  immature 
work  into  the  world's  show-windows  of  poetic  read- 
ing?    Because  Kirke  White  died  at  twenty-one,  shall 

7 


generation  after  generation  be  haunted  by  his  gaunt 
ghost  of  would-be  poetry?  We  pity  the  fate  of  an 
ardent  student,  but  we  cannot  commend,  because  of 
our  sympathy,  his  lifeless  verse. 

Stood  the  case  so,  in  my  opinion,  with  the  work 
of  my  friend,  I  should  have  recommended  the  de- 
struction (jf  all  that  he  had  written,  for  his  own  sake 
rather  than  for  the  world's.  IJut  I  believe  that  no- 
body can  read  "  The  Serenade,"  "  Life  and  I  were 
111  at  Ease,"  "Florida,"  or  the  rondel  "On  a  Wo- 
man's Eyes,"  without  being  attracted,  nay,  more  or 
less  fascinated.  The  light  step,  the  fling  and  care- 
less pathetic  grace  bring  to  mind  the  songsters  of 
cavalier  days. 

Then  "  An  Answer  to  a  Proposal  "  is  a  piece  pos- 
sessing indubitable  excellence  in  its  way — that,  in 
company  with  its  less  reckless  but  more  mutinously 
sweet  sister,  "Chant  de  Nuit,"  bids  fair,  unless  my 
mind  is  utterly  misled  by  friendship,  to  rival,  with 
poetic  readers,  some  of  the  very  best  poems  of  the 
kind  now  extant. 

But  apart  from  such  fragrant  work  as  "  The 
Shower"  and  others  of  the  sort,  there  is  lyric  work 
of  a  more  serious  character,  and  deserving,  I  think, 
far  higher  praise.  "  The  Glow-worm, "  while  Brown- 
ing-haimted,  is  still  his  own,  and  an  impressive 
piece  of  verse.  It  is  compactly  done,  and  reveals 
beauties   to   a  second   and   third   reading.      "Ergo 


/ 


Sum  "  is  a  little  masterpiece,  and  combines  serious 
questionings  with  exquisite  loveliness  and  delicate 
irony.  The  stanzas  "  The  Unseen  Singer"  are,  of  all 
his  work,  the  noblest.  As  the  poet  listens  to  the 
voice  and  wonders  what  face,  attitude,  and  glory  of 
soul  may  belong  to  the  singer,  he  reads  the  great 
lesson  of  faith.  God  is  the  unseen  singer  who 
chants  in  nature,  whose  sweetest  t(mcs  ring  in  the 
heart  itself,  and,  longing  to  hear  more  distinctly,  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  imimaginable  face,  man  has 
become  what  .is — has  become  (iod-like.  Then  the 
painful  verses  that  contrast  lethargy  of  spirit  with 
peace,  ending  in  a  pious  breathing  of  adoring  praise! 
Such  a  lyric  is  not  the  product  of  a  rhymer,  of  an 
immature  heart  and  brain,  but  is  an  artist's — a  true 
poet's  child. 

Among  the  lyrics  is  a  fragment  entitled  "  Sanity." 
This  piece  of  closj-knit  blank  verse  will  be  found 
repeated,  in  somewhat  altered  form,  in  the  body  of 
one  of  the  tales.  It  was  found  in  this  separate  form, 
and  since  in  this  separateness  it  speaks  more  person- 
ally, it  appears  where  it  does,  as  well  as  in  the 
"Suicide." 

To  draw  attention  to  the  fact  that  Mr.  Armstrong 
was  a  writer  according  to  two  entirely  different 
methods  may  serve  to  explain  the  inspirationalism 
evident  in  many  of  his  lyrics,  and  the  careful  medi- 
tated style  of  other  samples  of  his  workmanship.     If 

9 


K 


Iti 


i| 


"Timoleon's  Love,"  for  instance,  had  no  further 
merit  than  its  self-restrained  manner  and  its  excel- 
lently deve'!oped  metaphors,  which  are,  after  the  ex- 
ample of  Elizabethan  dramatists,  worked  out  into 
detail,  it  would,  in  my  opinion,  deserve  publication. 

.  .  .  "A     he  sun  went  down, 
Stripping  of  all  then  purple  uniform 
His  soldiery  of  clouds,  until  they  looked 
Quite  woe-begone,  like  self-stung  renegades 
That  had  gone  over  to  advancing  night, " 

is  a  fair  example  of  his  metaphors  wrought  into  per- 
fectness. 

The  ^''^yls  and  talcs  speak  for  themselves.  **  Marco 
Miale  "  was  found  in  a  very  disordered  form.  It  was 
only  after  great  pains  that  the  thread  of  narrative 
was  traced  through  the  many  fragments  which  were 
afterward  arranged  so  as  to  produce  the  apparently 
intended  effect;  the  poem  had  really  never  been 
written.  Notes,  as  it  were,  had  been  jotted  down 
at  odd  moments,  some  in  pencil,  some  in  ink;  now 
overlapping  in  subject,  now  almost  contradictory. 
For  the  arrangement  of  the  poem,  such  as  it  is,  the 
editor  is  responsible.  Whatever  is  good  belongs  to 
the  poet,  whatever  is  marred  must  be  set  down  to 
the  ill  judgment  of  his  friend. 

•'  Memories,  a  Study  in  E  Minor,"  is  an  attractive 
joem,  the  suggestive  sweetness  and  passion  of  which 
may  possibly  escape  the  reader  at  the  first  perusal. 

10 


It  seems  to  me  in  some  respects  ai  example  of  his 
most  finished  work. 

To  be  sure,  like  all  yoim^  poets  he  was  under  the 
spell  of  master-sinci'ers,  and  echoes  minific  with  his 
own  voice.  And  now  all  that  remains  to  be  done  is 
to  draw  the  reader's  attention  to  the  pronunciation 
of  words  like  "trifling"  and  "rippling"  in  three 
syllables,  "  spiritual"  in  two,  and  such  words  as 
"  heaven, "  "  rhythm, "  "  chasm, "  "  flower, "  "  fire, "  and 
"  hour  "  as  dissyllables. 

It  is  hoped  that  this  little  volume  may  add  a  few 
fragrant  blossoms  to  the  vSouthern  nosegay,  and  in 
some  measure  win  for  the  unfortunate  poet  the  rec- 
ognition he  dreamed  of,  as  the  well-earned  crown 
of  future  work  which  weakness,  disease,  and  death 
forbade. 

Norman  de  Lagutry. 
II 


TO  J.  H.  A. 

QEAR  fellow-wanderer  through  enchuntc<l  days, 

How  the  moon  shone ! 
Dear  fellow-chooser  of  unbeaten  ways, 

Were  the  flowers  sweet? 
Dear  fellow-seeker  after  glories  strange, 

Was  thy  face  thin  and  wan  ? 
Ah !     We  are  struggling  thro'  great  seas  of  change. 
And  thou  art  set  beyond  all  hope's  defeat! 

Nay,  we  can  weep  for  what  is  lost  alone, 

But  thou  art  near — 
More  near  than  ere  from  earth  thy  soul  had  flown 

To  sunlit  hills. 
For  where  I  am,  thither  I  summon  up 

Thy  spirit  from  its  sphere ; 
Thy  hand  holds  to  my  lips  a  golden  cup. 

Whose  sunny  draught  all  ache  of  yearning  stills. 

Thou  knowest  all— I  need  to  tell  thee  naught— 

Thou  knowest  all. 
Nor  are  we  broken-hearted.     Thou  hast  taught 

To  heed  the  call 
Of  spirit  voices,  and  they  cheer  us  on 

To  look  for  higher  things ; 
The  past  was  fair— but  see  the  future's  dawn  ! 

And  joy  can  reach  it  on  his  passion-wings. 

N.  DE  L. 
13 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 


JOSEPH  H.  ARMSTRONG,  the  sen  of  Richard 
F.  Armstrong  and  grandson  of  the  late  Gen. 
James  W.  Armstrong,  of  Macon,  Ga.,  was  born  in 
Halifax,  X.  S.,  on  the  nineteenth  of  September,  1867. 
An  inherited  delicacy  of  constitution,  however,  neces- 
sitated his  removal  to  a  warmer  climate,  and  being 
of  Southern  parentage,  he  quickly  and  naturally  iden- 
tified himself  with  the  people  among  whom  the  tra- 
ditions of  his  family  lay.  Being  debarred  by  fre- 
quent illnesses  from  participating  in  the  rougher 
sports  of  boyhood,  as  well  as  from  undertaking  the 
irksome  tasks  of  the  school-room,  his  education  pro- 
ceeded iu  the  desultory  fashion  natural  where  a 
quick  and  inquiring  mind  is  left  unrestrained  in  its 
pursuits;  and  in  the  ardor  of  study  his  tasks  and  his 
pleasures  became  often  identical. 

It  was  not  until  his  eighteenth  year  that  it  was 
thought  practicable  to  subject  him  to  the  demands 
and  restrictions  of  a  fixed  course  of  study,  the  many 
advantages  offered  by  the   University  of  the  South 

15 


n 

.'"■■ 

ii. 


first  siiggestinnf  such  a  possibility.  At  that  institu- 
tion he  accordingly  remained  for  ihrca  years — the 
value  of  which,  in  mental  and  physical  training,  as 
well  as  in  that  contact  and  association  which  is  so 
needful  a  preparation  for  entrance  upon  active  life, 
he  fully  and  justly  appreciated;  while  an  entry  in 
his  journal  at  this  time  expresses  the  poignant  regret 
with  which  the  ties  there  formed  were  severed. 

In  the  summer  of  iSSQhe  visited  Halifax  for  a  brief 
period,  soon  finding  it  imperative  to  return  to  the 
milder  Southern  air.  Even  in  that  favorable  cli- 
mate, however,  an  attack  of  /a  grippe  developed 
the  disea.se  again.st  which  he  had  so  long  been 
guarded ;  and  one  more  summer  brought  to  its  close 
the  brief  story  of  his  life,  his  strength  barely  suffic- 
ing for  a  return  to  that  land  whose  soft  airs  had  so 
often  restored  him  to  comparative  health.  The 
winter  of  1S90-91  proved  singularly  unfavorable, 
provoking  the  lines  entitled  "Florida,"  the  loving 
mockery  of  which  is  in  one  of  his  characteristic 
veins,  and  in  which  the  pen  falls  from  the  weak 
hand  in  most  pathetic  confirmation  of  the  arraign- 
ment. 

St.  Augustine    had   been    always   his    best-loved 

home,   with   its  relics  of  an  older  time,    its  vague 

associations  of  history  and  romance,  its  charm  of  sea 

and  sky,  and  its  free  and  informal  yet  refined  social 

life ;  and  it  was  in  this  chosen  spot  tha^    in  January, 

16 


1891,  after  a  month  in  which  the  patient  and  brave 
spirit  seemed  alone  to  sustain  the  sinking  body,  he 
passed  away,  retaining  to  the  last  conscious  moment 
the  vivacity  and  clearness  of  intellect  which  were 
characteristic  of  him. 

As  a  student  his  love  cf  poetry  transcended  all 
others,  and  though  tempted  by  an  ardent  and  some- 
what mercurial  temperament  to  try  many  depart- 
ments of  art,  he  ever  returned  to  the  old  love;  and 
his  ambition,  conceived  at  an  age  when  few  boys 
look  beyond  the  play-ground,  was  ever  for  achieve- 
ment in  that  field.  His  style,  as  is  natural  in  youth, 
was  much  influenced  by  his  enthusiasm  for  certain 
writers,  though  unconsciously  so — Keats,  perhaps, 
having  made  the  earliest  and  hence  the  deepest 
impression ;  the  hardening  of  fibre  and  assertion 
of  individuality  having  just  begun  to  be  evident  in 
his  latest  work. 

In  the  restlessness  of  an  ardent  and  aspiring  mind, 
impatient  of  commonplace  formulas,  fascinated  at 
times  by  the  specious  philosophies  of  the  day,  yet 
never  satisfied  with  their  conclusions,  he  struggled 
onward  toward  the  light,  finding  a  vantage-ground 
in  that  higher  pantheism  which  seems  not  to  be  in- 
compatible with  the  truth  revealed  to  us.  In  "  The 
Glow-worm"  is  a  touch  of  this  belief,  and  in  his  last 
verses,  "The  Unseen  Singer,"  is  shadowed  the  con- 
flict which  had  at  last  reached  its  peaceful  result. 
a  17 


To  remind  his  friends,  for  whom  this  volume  is 
primarily  intended,  of  his  many  companionable 
qualities,  of  the  keen  and  ready  wit,  the  quaint 
humor,  and  the  fine  insight,  would  perhaps  be  need- 
less, wh  le  to  the  sympathetic  much  of  this  will  be 
discernible  in  his  writings. 

It  is  but  just  to  remind  the  reader  that  the  author 
of  this  book  had  lived  but  little  over  twenty-three 
years;  that  almost  all  was  written  before  even  that 
age  had  been  i.  .ained,  and  that  the  greater  part, 
written  in  moments  of  depression,  in  the  weariness 
of  sleepless  nights,  and  often  in  the  intervals  of 
suffering,  was  thrown  aside  in  the  impatience  of 
severe  self-criticism,  cither  to  be  destroyed  or  to 
await,  for  revisal,  a  future  day  of  calmer  judgment 
and  maturer  culture — a  day  to  which  all  serious  and 
sustained  work  was  hopefully  postponed,  but  which, 
alas!  was  never  to  be. 

iS 


■■-      ^ --'.,■  '  (i-g    tmidti 


le  IS 
lable 
mint 
leed- 
11  be 


ithor 
hree 
that 
part, 
ness 
s  of 
e  of 
r  to 
nent 
and 
ich, 


TO   MY   MOTHER. 

THOUGH  I  be  cast  a  plaything-  on  the  shore 
Of  bleak  despair  by  some  wild  storm  of  doubt, 
Or  stand  upon  time's  pinnacle  and  shout 
The  battle-cry  or  truth  amid  the  roar 
Of  damning  multitudes ;  though  curses  pour 
Their  blasting  breath  upon  mine  head,  and  flout 
This  ragged  carcass ;  though  dim  spectres  rout 
The  creed  of  my  soul's  soul,  and  to  the  core 
Of  my  faint  heart  drive  back  its  frenzied  tide ; — 
Yet  the  faint  music  of  my  last  sweet  breath 
Shall  voice  my  tears,  and  like  an  anthem  glide 
Above  the  surging  threnody  of  death, 
Till  thy  dear  name  my  restful  lips  have  sighed, 
And  my  heart  die  even  while  it  listeneth. 


1888. 


19 


I. 


I' 


FLORIDA. 

BY  the  stars  that  circle  there 
In  and  out  amid  the  mist, 
By  the  chill  moon's  stare, 

And  the  sea  moon -kissed, 
Florida,  my  Italy, 
What  a  fool  you've  made  of  me  I 

Drowsing  sun-steeped  by  the  sea, 
This  is  how  I've  found  thee  waitini,'- 


January,  1891. 


SONG. 


LIFE  and  true  love  meet  but  once. 
And  though  too  oft  they  drift  apart, 
Yet  death  alone  can  fill  the  void 

Where  Love  once  nestled  in  the  heart. 

And  lips  may  smile  on  sleeping  woe. 

And  eyes  may  sparkle  through  their  tears, 

Yet  who  like  Memory's  self  can  know 
The  phantoms  of  forgotten  years? 


ill 


111 


A   MARTIAL   ODE. 


"  '"T^O  arms!     To  arms!"  respondent  throats 
i       Give  back  the  soul-inspiring  notes, 

Save  mine,  which  breathes  a  sigh; 
A  thousand  gleaming  falchions  shine, 
And  every  lip  cries  "On!"  save  mine, 

Which  first  must  say,  "Good-by." 


"To  arms!     To  arms!"     The  cohorts  stand, 
A  countless  host,  a  gallant  band, 

A  stanch  and  dauntless  line; 
"To  arms!"  each  man  must  win  or  die — 
"  To  arms!"  and  to  their  arms  they  fly, 

And  I— I  fly  to  thine! 


LOVE    IN   THE    MARKET. 


TRIOLET. 

THE  kiss  she  threw  to  Jack, 
Which  I  chanced  by  and  caught? 
'Tis  true  I  gave  her  back 
The  kiss  she  *hrcw  to  Jack — 
Yet  was  a  thief,  alack ! 

In  stealing  what  he  bought — 
The  kiss  she  threw  to  Jack 

Which  I  chanced  by  and  caught! 
ax 


vSERENADE. 

LIFE  and  I  were  ill  at  ease: 
When  we  were  each  alone,  love, 
Time  became  a  slow  disease 
With  nothing  to  atone,  love, 

For  the  weary  hours  that  pass 
As  slowly  as  a  prayer,  love, 

When  the  dark  cathedral  glass 
Stains  the  outer  air,  love ! 


Ill 


Life  and  I  were  friends  in  name 
Till  Life  led  me  to  you,  love, 

And  then  I  saw  I  was  to  blame. 
And  Life  was  always  tru*^   love! 


22 


HAMADRYADS. 

WE  of  oak  and  bccchcn  shades, 
1       Tender  music  of  the  wood, 

White  of  brow,  with  m.,i-sy  braids 
Coifing  gentle  virginhood, 

Have  the  cogs  and  wheels  of  time 
Dinned  upon  your  coral  ears, 

With  the  halting,  hum-drum  rhyme 
Of  these  last  prosaic  years? 

Have  they  tainted  that  clysian 
Peace  and  joy  ye  knew  of  yore? 

Have  our  eyes  imperfect  v'sion. 
That  ye  are  with  us  no  more? 

Hamadryads,  chaste  and  coy, 
Ye  are  still  the  same,  and  we. 

Mixed  and  mingled  with  alloy, 
See  not  all  there  is  to  see ! 

23 


LOVE'S   DIRGE. 

WANDERING  night-winds  passed  us,  laded 
With  the  breath  of  violets; 
Mellow  moonlight  dumbly  faded 

Where  the  water  frets 
In  the  wake  of  tuneful  oar, 
Like  a  sighing  paramour, 

Dripping,  dripping 
Like  the  tripping 
•     Music  of  sweet  castanets. 

My  pale  lips  on  hers  had  rested 

In  the  calm  of  dying  pain, 
/i  nd  her  sweeping  lashes  jested 

With  a  tear  or  twain ; 
Still  I  see  the  fading  vision 
Like  a  smile  of  sharp  derision, 
When  one,  sleeping, 
Wakes  in  weeping. 
With  .he  dull-remembered  pain. 

For  I  left  her,  where  yon  willow 

Drooped  and  drowsed  athwart  the  stream, 

With  the  rushes  for  her  pillow 

Curtained  with  a  dream. 

24 


aded 


Yet  I  cannot  but  remember 
Life's  fair  Jime  in  life's  December, 

When  no  laughter 

Lingers  after 
All  that  was,  and  is,  a  dream ! 


1889. 


DESPONDENCE. 

pO'"-  the  love  of  a  blossom  that  blew  not, 
*        But  paled  in  the  fire  of  a  kiss; 
In  the  kissing  of  lips  that  I  knew  not 
The  pain  of  God's  wrath  I  will  rue  not 
After  the  ceasing  of  this ! 

In  the  pang  of  a  pain  that  I  know  not, 

And  tears  that  I  cannot  weep 
In  the  paying  a  debt  that  I  owe  not, 
I  reap  the  red  tares  that  I  sow  not 

And  sow— as  I  cannot  reap ! 


i 
I  -ill 


FROM   ••SONGS   OF  A   PAGAN." 

OVER  the  white  sea-foam, 
Into  the  starlit  morn, 
Like  music  through  the  dome 
That  roofs  the  panting  dawn ; 

Over  th3  dewy  hills, 

Into  ihe  silent  night, 
Brushing  the  daffodils 

In  that  melodious  flight — 

Life  and  Love  are  fled 

Away  on  the  wild  wind's  breath, 
And  they  make  their  bridal  bed 

On  the  blossoming  robe  of  death. 


SEWANEE,  1889. 


i 


HEAVEN  may  be  eternal, 
But  it  hath  no  joys  for  me ; 
Nor  the  fire  of  sunset  vernal, 

Nor  the  paean  of  the  sea. 
Nor  the  whisper  of  the  ocean 

When  time  is  lost  in  dreaming, 
Nor  its  scintillating  motion 

When  the  dawn  is  faintly  gleaming. 

26 


'M 


Hi 


■ajiiuimiimiiwmi 


I  have  them  all,  and  love  them ; 

And  when  my  spirit  dies, 
May  it  vanish,  and  be  of  them. 

And  they  its  Paradise ! 


SEfsfORITA,  have  thine  eyes 
No  soft  glance  of  love  for  me, 
Nor  the  music  of  thy  sighs 
Aught  that  answers  mine  for  thee? 

Have  thy  lips  no  tender  moods 

When  they  know  not  what  they  miss- 
When  a  breaking  smile  intrudes 
And  a  smile  becomes  a  kiss? 

Senorita,  fare  thee  well ! 

"  Yo  te  amo,"  I  would  say, 

But  thy  bright  eyes  look  my  knell, 

And  thy  sweet  lips  say  me  nay ! 

27 


m 


LOVE,  be  thy  lips  the  cradle  of  my  sighs, 
Mingling  their    fragrance   with    thy  sentient 
breath. 
Till  they  are  born  again  in  melodies 
And  orisons  of  love,  cast  at  the  feet  of  death. 


Love,  be  thy  heart  the  registry  of  mine. 
Whose  tear-stained  tablets  may  unopened  lie,  . 

Until  my  soul  hath  bid  adieu  to  thine. 
And  all  things  fade  save  those  which  cannot  die. 


MY  dream  hath  fled,  and  its  airy  dome 
Hath  crumbled  into  dust,  and  I, 
Like  a  desolate  bird  without  a  home. 
Ask  but  a  spot  in  which  to  die. 


The  holiest  shrine  of  holy  love, 
The  joy  existence  held  for  me, 

The  light  of  the  stars  that  smile  above, 
My  spirit  found  in  thine  and  thee ! 


a8 


i-J-, 


LIPS  have  smiled  till  smiles  were  tears, 
And  eyes  have  oft  grown  passing  blue, 
Yet  breathed  no  echo  from  the  heart — 
No  echo  true. 

And  oft  the  dewy  breath  of  love 
To  passion's  heavy  utterance  grew, 

Yet  never  hath  my  thirsty  heart 
Drunk  echoes  true. 

Ye  winds  asleep  upon  the  sea, 
Oh!  wake  ye  in  a  howling  crew, 

And  thunder  to  the  skies  a  curse 
That  tuny  be  true  ! 

SEWANFR,   18S9. 

29 


y 


>. 


TO   R.  B. 

STANCH  be  thy  bark 
When  the  skies  are  dark 
And  the  storm's  wild  wings  are  tree, 
And  the  billows  leap 
Where  the  still  sands  sleep 
On  the  margin  of  the  sea! 
And  ere  we  part, 
From  a  heavier  heart 
Here's  a  health  to  thy  heart  and  thee ! 


■ 
I; 


1! 


Fair  be  thy  dreams. 

When  waking  seems 
To  live  again  in  sleep, 

And  thine  eyes  smile  o'er 

A  fairer  shore 
Than  that  shore  on  which  men  weep ! 

So  the  purple  sea 

Of  this  health  to  thee 

Be  deep  as  my  heart  is  deep! 

30 


^ 


\ 


Life  is  but  brief, 

And  time  is  a  thief, 
And  death  hath  a  master-key 

To  free  the  soul 

When  the  jailer's  bowl 
Is  red  with  revelry ; 

May  thine  be  true ! 

With  a  last  adieu 
And  a  health  from  ray  heart  to  thee'. 

SEWANEE,  1888. 

31 


ll 


..<  ,11 


LIFE'S    RETRIBUTION. 


SORROW'vS  solution 
Ends  with  the  tomb: 
Vaunting  ambition — 
Vain  is  its  mission, 
Lost  in  the  gloom 
Of  humanity's  doom! 
Though  we  may  sigh  for  it, 
Though  our  hearts  die  for  it, 
All  is  in  vain! 
However  we  merit, 
Others  inherit 
All  but  the  pain 
Of  that  dreary  refrain 
Of  failing  again ! 
Cease,  cease  your  weeping ! 
In  the  still  keeping 
Of  death's  chilly  eye: 
I  see  a  light  leaping 
In  the  dull  sleeping 

Of  that  which  must  die, 
32 


\ 


And,  in  its  purity, 
Scorning  death  s  docm! 
Tis  the  bright  surety 
Of  that  futurity- 
Life's  retribution, 
Sorrow' s  solution, 
Surviving  pollution 
Born  of  the  tomb! 
33 


Ij 


SONG. 

[From  "Messalina,"  an  unfinished  drama.] 

IN  a  far  Greek  isle,  where  the  skies  were  blue, 
And  the  music  of  the  sea 
Haunted  the  sands  where  the  seaweed  grew, 
Died  in  the  clouds  where  the  sea-gulls  flew, 
And  the  sun  sank  wondrously; 

In  a  far  Greek  isle  a  little  Greek  maid 

Walked  on  the  sands  by  the  sea, 
Haunted  the  sands  where  the  seaweed  grew. 
Gazed  into  heaven  where  the  sea-gulls  flew. 

And  the  sun  sank  wondrously. 

And  the  tyrant  Clcon  saw  her  there 

With  her  eyes  as  deep  as  the  sea, 
And  the  looped-up  gold  of  her  circled  hair. 
And  the  marblehood  of  her  shoulders,  bare 

In  the  hardihood  of  sanctity. 

And  he  said,  "  My  child,  to  be  loved  of  one 

Like  thou  art,  here  b)^  the  sea, 
Would  well  repay  what  a  god  had  done 
In  the  sweat  of  years  o'er  the  wheels  of  the  sun, 

In  a  nightless  eternity!" 

34 


'^ 


KISMET. 

1SAW  her  blue  eyes  quiver 
In  the  rushes  and  reeds  of  time, 
Like  a  naiad's  in  a  river 

Where  the  hollow  waters  chime, 
Tolled  by  the  winds  of  even ; 

But,  oh !  she  paled  and  fled — 
And  the  light  may  be  in  heaven, 
But  the  lamp  is  with  the  dead! 

'Twas  music  hung  about  her 

And  lingered  where  she  trod ; 
And  Love  could  do  without  her 

As  faith  without  a  God! 
A  bud  fast  shut  with  showers, 

A  wreck  of  April  green, 
That  dies  among  the  flowers 

To  show  what  should  have  been. 

Her  lips  were  like  the  water, 
Both  passing  fair  and  chill. 

As  if  the  sunlight  caught  her 
And  kissed  against  her  will ; 

Her  tongue  was  lightly  laden, 
Her  life  itself  a  jest! 

The  grave  hath  won  the  maiden, 

And  the  daisies  tell  the  rest. 

Halifax,  1889. 

35 


WHAT   IS   LOVE? 


TO 


HA!  what  is  love?     What  more  than  this- 
A  pain  of  sonl,  an  ache  of  heart; 
A  sickness  of  the  God  in  man, 
A  starving  on  the  Judas  kiss 
Of  flesh  and  flesh,  more  bitter  than 
A  poison  having  no  sweet  part? 
This  pain  of  soul,  this  ache  of  he^  rt! 
And  where  was  "  love"  before  the  soul 
Began  to  knead  the  well-fit  clay? 
When  Socrates  found  life  to  be 
The  generous  path  of  self-control, 
That  neither  throws  God's  gifts  away 
Nor  turns  them  into  revelry? 


I 


36 


II 


i 
I 

I 


ONE    KISS,    AND    THEN? 


A    SONNET. 


! 


ONE  kiss,  and  then,  like  parting  wreaths  of  mist 
That  him^  in  love's  red  sunset,  we  ^vew  cold; 
And  the  last  blush  of  passion-purpled  gold 
Fell  palpitating  into  amethyst. 

One  kiss,  and  oh!  the  lips  that  mine  have  kissod 
Forget,  though  not  forgotten.     Shadows  fold 
Mine  own,  and  old  sweet  tales  that  hers  had  told 

Are  but  harmonious  words  without  a  gist. 

Oh!  where  shall  we  hang  in  life's  wide  eterne, 
When  love's  white  sunrise  drives  the  night  away? 

What  other  words  upon  my  lips  will  burn? 
What  other  light  in  her  blue  eyes  will  play? 

Soft!  I  have  seen  a  beacon-light  afar: 

In  life's  chill  night  that  kiss,  love,  is  a  star. 

37 


RONDEL. 

[A  rei)iy  to  verses  in  JIarpef's  Magazine,  October,  1887.] 

A    SOLUTION. 

What  Browning  meant,  the  maiden  fair 
Besought  of  me  in  wild  despair 

As,  seated  in  a  grassy  nook, 

We  pondered  o'er  the  mystic  book 
To  find  the  secret  written  there. 

O'erhead  the  squirrels  debonair 
Made  merry  in  their  leafy  lair  ; 
Enjoying  life,  no  thought  they  took 
What  Browning  meant, 

And  seemed  to  say,  "  You  foolish  pair, 
Be  wise,  and  mystery  forswear  ; 

Be  gay  as  Doris  with  her  crook 

And  Corydon."     Then  did  I  look 
Up  to  her  eyes,  and  ceased  to  care 
What  Browning  meant. 


AWOMAN'vS  eyes!     No  wonder,  then, 
His  Browning  was  forgotten  when 
The  all  outside  of  Paradise, 
Unfathomed  still  by  marvelling  men, 

vShone  down  npon  him — Browning-wise — 
A  woman's  eyes! 

38 


j 


For  man,  poor  wretch,  may  search  and  solve 
The  rhyme  in  which  the  stars  revolve, 

Where  fire-tracked  comets  sink  and  rise, 
The  liquid  spells  where  gems  dissolve. 

Save  those  whose  flash  disarms  surmise — 

A  woman's  eyes! 

And  yet,  perhaps,  the  wise  youth  saw 
What  you  have  guessed  not,  for  one  law 

Holds  good  of  things  in  mystic  guise. 
"  What  Browning  meant"  he  found  there,  for 

All  poets  they  epitomize — 

A  woman's  eyes! 

39 


TO   THE   ARTIST. 

BE  silent,  emulate  the  lips  of  time, 
Upon  which  silence  broods  with  folded  win^ 
Until  it  dies  within  the  mighty  rush 
Of  the  swift  music  of  triumphant  love, 
Which  bursts  upon  the  world  and  cries,  '*  vSuccess!" 


I 


SONNET    TO   THE    SEA. 

FOREVER  art  thou  gazing  on  the  sky. 
Forever  echoing  the  stars  that  pass 
Above  thee ;  now  as  calm  thou  art  as  grass 
Ruffled  somewhat  by  spring  winds  as  they  fly 

Upon  flower-robbing  wings — and  now,  the  sigh 
Of  north-brewed  revolution  breathes,  alas ! 
Faints  on  thy  bosom,  while  a  huddled  mass 

Of  thunder-mist  is  full  of  ruin's  cry. 

Yon  fern-robed  mountain-peak  is  child  of  Time, 

And  sinks  into  the  dust  we  sink  into, 

The  butt  of  winds  in  winter's  grizzled  cope; 

Only  thine  own  eternal  ebb  and  flow 

Is  one,  with  many  changes,  like  a  rhyme 

Of  many  miseries  bound  about  one  hope, 

40 


g\ 


1 


c 


ODE   TO   ANACREON. 

HORISTER  of  love  and  wine, 
Sweet-tongued  rival  of  the  nine, 
A  double  meed  of  joy  be  thine ! 

Where'er  thy  sprite  hath  sought  its  rest 

In  the  vineyards  of  the  blest, 
Where  the  leaves  are  spun  of  mist, 
Trembling  o'er  the  amethyst 

Of  bloomy  fruit,  whose  clustered  store 

Stains  thy  silent  lips  no  more — 
Revelry  and  joy  be  thine! 

Not  the  revelry  of  earth, 
Where  eyes  are  bright,  and  hearts  repine, 

And  woe  is  cloaked  with  shrinking  mirth; 
No  such  love  as  fills  the  heart 

With  echoes  of  what  might  have  been. 
Laughing  when  sweet  thoughts  depart 

And  despair  hath  entered  in ; 
But  the  joy  and  revelry 
Which,  like  buds  that  blow  and  die, 

Pales  with  time  and  waxeth  less 

To  bear  the  seed  of  perf ectness ! 
Chorister  of  wine  and  love, 

Such  be  thine  abode  above ! 

Spring,  1889. 

41 


^ 


I 


FRAGMENTS. 


IDEAL    WOMAN. 


THE  possible  of  woman  is  to  be 
The  span  of  God  that  compasseth  mankind; 
The  morning  of  man's  east;  the  golden  brew 
Of  dreams  that  night  drinks,  in  the  quiet  west ; 
The  horizon  of  life's  tired  mariners; 
The  verge  which  hides  God  from  us,  and  in  hiding 
Proves  him  as  yonder  limits  prove  the  great 
World's  symmetry,  as  music  proves  that  death, 
Being  hushed^  is  not  the  end  of  things  that  die, 
For  silence  ends  in  music!     .     .     . 

42 


I 


II 


I 

I 


FALSE    LOVE. 

SO  seize  we  on  the  fairest  flesh  of  them, 
Brer.thing,  in  passion's  primal  mightiness, 
Our  own  souls  into  their  transparent  clay ; 
Worshipping  fires  that  we  have  blown  to  life 
In  our  abundance.     Then  comes  weariness, 
And  we  sleep  for  a  time — dream  pleasantly — 
And  feel  a  swift  returning  flush  of  life. 
Which  is  the  welcome  of  our  exiled  spirit, 
Playing  no  more  the  part  of  perfume  in 
An  odorless  bud. 

.     .     .      The  weight 
And  mental  bulk  of  such  far-reaching  pain, 
Less  than  the  hungry  gauntness  of  slow  death 
That  science  wrings  from  wasting  maladies. 
Laughs  at  stiff-fingered  dogmas  and  rough  creeds 
That  honor  sin  with  masculinity ; 
Sin,  the  hermaphrodite,  the  double-edged, 
The  lesser  poisoned,  and  out-edging  death 
WitI-  the  false  glitter  of  fair  legends  writ 
Upon  an  air-keen  blade  that  leaves  the  imprint 
Of  man's  nobility  on  the  heart's  red  core. 

43 


r 


lit 


MESSALINA. 

[Fragment  of  a  drama.] 

A  WOMAN  void  of  better  principle, 
Given  quite  over  to  all  devilish  things, 
Cimmerian-souled,  and  most  unpitying; 
Merciless,  fierce,  destructive,  murderous, 
I  know  this  woman  in  my  soul  to  be; 
And  yet  she  breathes  so  sweet  an  atmosphere. 
Full  of  unspecified  rich  possibles; 
An  inarticulate  witchery  of  music, 
Whose  influence  generates  all  beautiful  dreams — 
Sweet,  rare  conceptions  in  regard  to  her ; 
And  she  doth  so  subject,  adopt,  and  take 
A  seeming  whiteness,  purity,  innocence. 
The  tyrannous  sovereignty  of  our  better  selves, 
That  perjury  is  dear-bought  martyrdom. 
Guilt  but  a  clash  of  circumstance,  and  life 
But  clay-sphered  adoration!     Is  it  so? 
And  yet — ah,  God ! — a  glory  of  brief  flesh — 
Beautiful — beautiful !     God,  how  beautiful ! 
Foul — foul !  mark,  Atticus,  I  name  her  foul — 
Devilish!  mark,  I  call  her  devilish; 

44 


Biit,  in  her  vilcncss,  not  a  thin^  apart, 
A  food  for  controversy,  in  the  touch 
Of  sexless  speculation  to  be  viewed, 
As  a  green-fleshed,  glue-eyed  astronomer 
Watches  the  ruin  of  a  pleiad,  hung 
In  the  constellated  chart  of  God!     Me?  me! 
And  if  I  feel  her  eyes'  warm  influence 
Fall  on  me  like  a  rare  intoxicant. 
Shall  I  then  pause— pause— pause,  perchance  to  fix 
The  date  of  their  eclipse?  to  calculate 
The  durance  of  their  glory?     Oh!  I  am 
No  saint,  as  thou  art ;  nor  is  my  heart  bound 
By  tasks,  or  narrow  functions  of  the  flesh, 
But,  Samson-like,  will  cease  to  grind  the  mill, 
Pulling  the  roof  down  on  good  resolution ! 
Strong  am  I  in  my  weakness,  as  the  sea. 
Swayed — shaped  into  unconquerable  ebb 
And  flow  by  the  cold  beckonings  of  the  moon. 
Pity,  my  Atticus!     Condemn  me  not. 

45 


m 


m 


.: '; 


!•  i 


111 


THE  vSHOWER. 

THE  spattered  gold  of  the  sky  is  marred 
By  a  cloud  in  the  zenith  ;  and  the  flowers 
Are  pale  and  dumb,  and  stand  on  guard 
To  brave  the  wrath  of  summer  showers, 
Falling  like  fiercer  music  in 
A  dome  of  silence  and  of  sin. 


The  sea  is  red  with  molten  gold ; 

But,  ripple  by  ripple,  the  pallor  creeps, 
Till  back  on  its  white  heart  day  is  rolled 
And  the  world  and  the  water  sleeps. 
And  I — lie  dumb  among  the  flowers, 
Thinking  of  life  and  its  summer  showers. 

* 

A  flutter  of  chill  wind  passes  first, 
A  tongueless  calm  comes  after  it ; 

Then  a  big  drop,  in  some  sky-cup  nursed 

Till  it  overflowed  its  frothy  pit, 

Falls  on  a  violet  close  by  me. 

And  the  blue  bud  weeps  in  an  ecstasy! 

46 


I 


vSTORM. 


DROWNIXC.    VISIONS. 


^'Il 


IN  a  ruin  of  gold 
The  sky  grew  cold, 
And  the  waters  were  leaden  gray; 
And  the  spray, 
Like  a  plume 
In  a  spent  night's  gloom, 
Glared  white  against  the  day. 
And  the  sea-gulls'  scream, 
And  the  ghostly  gleam 
Of   each  wing,   and  its  far  faint  whirr,- 
On  my  heart  they  fell 
Like  the  name  of  Hell 
On  the  heart  of  a  murderer! 
And  the  swash — swish — swash 
Of  the  frozen  wash 
When  the  helm  lay  hard-a-lee ! 
The  whimpering  wail 
Of  the  beaten  sail — 
They  palsied  the  heart  of  me ! 
And  I  begged  a  prayer 
From  dumb  Despair — 
Such  things  her  lips  disburse, 
But  she  cheated  me  then, 

47 


For  I  cried  "  Amen" ! 

To  a  cold  heart-withering  curse. 

•         •••••         I 

Then  it  came  to  pass 

That  the  calm  of  grass, 

Knee-deep  and  daisy-starred, 

Ruffled  and  riven 

By  the  winds  of  heaven, 

Where  the  full  moon  stands  on  guard, 

Fell  on  the  sea — 

Fell  down  on  me, 

And  I  shut  my  weary  eyes: 

And  there  came  a  dream — 

And  I  rocked  on  the  stream 

That  flows  through  Paradise ! 


Ill 


Now  I  heard  sweet  bells, 

'Twas  the  boat  on  the  shells 

That  lie  on  the  white  still  shore — 

Then  the  curlew's  call 

Burst  through  it  all, 

And  I  rose,  and  dreamed  no  more ! 

But  the  gist  of  the  whole 

Is — the  calm  of  soul 

God  gives  to  a  man  in  dread; 

For  the  truth  was,  ten 

Of  the  coast-guard  men 

Swore  an  oath  that  I  was  dead ! 

4S 


SANITY. 


A     FRAGMENT. 


I  TOO  am  mad, 
If  madness  is  to  think  athwart  the  times! 
To  build  one's  temporal  environments 
Of  timeless  meditation,  and  to  pass 
To  old  age  in  no  age!     Men  come  and  go 
And  know  not  what  they  are,  nor  whence  they  come, 
But  measure  life  by  suns  and  moons  and  stars, 
To  fix  themselves,  and  individualize 
Their  little  epoch !     Those  of  finer  stuff, 
Men  who  construct  a  personality 
Of  light  and  thought  and  spirit,  men  who  build 
Upon  this  base  and  pedestal  of  clay 
The  shadow  of  their  own  divinity: 
The  lightning-like  vitality  of  these 
Out-wrestles  death,  and  passes  on,  and  fills 
The  ragged  speculations  of  their  day 
With  a  clear  deathless  pulse  that  thrills  forever! 
4  49 


SPRING. 


AN    IMPROMPTU. 


O  SPRING,  sweet  solacer  of  wintry  woes; 
Brewer  of  perfumes,  odors  crystalline, 
And  golden  essences,  that  through  the  air 
Temper  the  winds,  and  gather  in  the  buds, 
Close-petalled  from  the  oblivion  of  night, 
To  part  their  love-locked  lips,  and  give  them  tongues 
To  whisper  to  their  dewy  paramours ; — 
Young  Spring,  fair  Spring,  sweet  neophyte  of  time, 
That  knows  not  pale  satiety,  but  still 
With  self-suffused  glory,  doth  defy 
The  biting  inroads  of  hot  summer-winds, 
And  stays  the  sun's  swift  perpendicular  beams 
From  earth's  yet  tender  cheek;  young  Spring,  fare- 
well, 
For  I  am  doomed  an  exile  from  thy  realms, 
Like  weeping  Naso  from  Caesarean  smiles. 
To  dare  the  bitterness  of  Tomi's  coast. 
And  pen  meek  madrigals  to  bear  my  tears. 
And  ease  the  heart  of  its  superfluous  load 

50 


I    ^ 


Of  icy  agony.     Yet  still,  oh!  still 

Linger  upon  my  recollecting  lips 

In  all  the  kissing  whispers  of  thy  joy ; 

Robbing  the  base  thief,  Time,  of  his  delights, 

And  making  memory  an  Eden,  where 

The  hope  of  better  things  doth  still  indorse 

The  echo  of  good  things  now  passed  away! 
Thomasville,  April,  1889. 

51 


S 


ir,  , 


TO 


i 


I'VE  seen  storms  master  Heaven,  until  she'd  weep! 
So  doth  thine  anger  master  thy  calm  eyes. 
I've  seen  the  fluttering  gold  of  morning  sweep 
The  dull  dome  and  the  sea; 

But  when  sweet  thoughts  with  all  their  alchemies 
Leave  those  depths  clear  to  me, 
I  have  no  longer  any  metaphor 
To  match  them  with ;  so,  tranced  evermore, 
I  gaze  at  thee  and  dream  of  Paradise ! 

I've  seen  the  full  waves  plumed  with  pallid  foam, — 

So  are  thy  lips,  when  anger  sits  on  them. 
I've  seen  a  sudden  shower  fall  slant,  and  comb 
The  white  spray  into  quietness,  gem  by  gem ; 
And  so  my  song  to  thee 
Would  fall  into  a  dream  upon  thine  ear. 
Mount  time's  slow  wheels — a  swifter  charioteer 
Than  thine  ill  thought  of  me! 

Tell  me  to  rest  my  head  upon  thy  knee! 

I  have  no  more  to  tell  thee — all  is  told. 

I  would  mine  earthliness  were  deathless  gold 
For  thee  to  mint  joy  out  of!     Yet,  perchance 

The  thoughts  of  mine  that  dwell  on  my  heart's  all — 
That  all  which  thou  art — transmute  what  is  me, 
And  goldener  than  morning's  stout  advance 

Upon  night's  camp,  my  soul  shall  win,  or  fall! 

52 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

GOOD-NIGHT !  though  we  be  parted  quite 
And  you  forget,  and  I  defy, 
Oh!  still,  when  night  hath  robbed  the  sight 
Of  things  that  make  sweet  memories  sigh, 
Still  dream  that  I  am  standing  by, 
As  though  affection  could  not  die: 
Still  dream  that  I  have  said  good-night. 

Good-night!  though  true  love  waxeth  chill, 
Yet  there  is  still  a  fragrance  there 

Whose  sweetness  time  may  never  kill ; 
A  vsmile  of  Love's  despair 

That  Cometh  yet,  and  ever  will. 

And  so,  though  dead,  'tis  love's  sweet  right 
To  be  forever  fa^'r — 

And  bridge  the  years  with  that  "good-night." 

53 


1.': 

I; 


I: 

i 


!' 


liiii 


i 


i 


WOMEN  AND  MICE.* 


i!  i 


WHAT  woman's  not  a  paradox  past  all  believ- 
ing? 
Built  up  of  smiles  and  tears,  of  sky  and  sod ! 
In  every  act  the  thing  of  all  things  past  conceiving, 
A  stumbling-block — a  link  'twixt  man  and  God! 


;ll  i 


,1 

|;l  1 


M  I 
i  I 

i 


A  perfect  woman}     Bah!  give  me  well-alloyed  metal. 

Perfection  is,  in  most,  perfection's  bane! 
Shall  I  explore  a  queen-rose,  petal  by  sweet  petal? 

A  worm?     What  is  a  joy  worth  without  pain? 


The  touch  of  music  when  you  ring  new-minted  treas- 
ure 

Hath  half  its  sweetness  of  the  baser  birth ! 
There  is  no  deep  of  stars  too  deep  for  man  to  measure 

Because  he  stands  upon  the  sky-scorned  earth, 

♦The  above  lines  were  suggested  by  a  discussion  as  to  the  fear  of 
mice  to  which  otherwise  courageous  women  are  liable,  and  the  poem 
not  having  been  completed,  an  explanation  of  Lhe  apparently  whimsical 
title  seems  necessary. 

';4 


lif 


HI 


^fi 


RATHER  MISPLACED. 

A    H!  what  was  that  tune  your  tongue  ran  in? 
■i\     That  sobbing  and  palpitant  strain- 
Like  the  smell  of  dead  buds,  to  a  man  in 

The  chill  of  November's  disdain? 
I  will  hold  that  ubiquitous  fan  in 

My  hand,  while  you  sing  it  again. 

For  anything  so  unexpected, 

Without  any  "wherefore"  or  "why," 

Too  frail  to  be  rudely  dissected. 
Sufficiently  lovely  to  die, 

Though  it  fade  and  is  gone  undetected, 
Leaves  a  void,  which  we  fill  with  a  sigh. 


Oh !  why  should  some  classical  German 
Play  the  master  in  music,  and  curb 

Every  melody  into  a  sermon? 
What  a  pity  those  critics  disturb 

The  sweet  hush  between  acts,  to  affirm,  on 
Their  honor,  the  thing  is  superb  1 

55 


m 


And  that  son^^  you  sang,  who  could  look  on  it 

As  too  sentimental  or  slow? 
Preferring  sonata  or  sonnet 

To  the  tender  and  tremulous  flow 
Of  that  perfume  in  tone?     Out  upon  it, 

That  critics  should  criticise  so! 


What?    You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  been  singing 
An  air  from  Tannhauser — that  flight 

Of  sweet  quavers  and  semitones,  ringing 
The  changes  on  some  underlight 

Of  emotion  and  feeling?     Well,  bringing 

The  thing  to  a  climax — Good-night! 
thomasville,  Ga. 

56 


■ 

1 

1 

v"  i 

M 

i       ! 


SERENADE. 


/^   MUSIC,  tuneful  minister  of  love, 
V^     Heal  the  dumb  apathy  of  patient  sleep, 
And  bid  her  eyelids  swell  with  dreams,  and  part 
Like  the  famed  shell  that  shuts  the  modest  pearl 
From  avaricious  eyes ;  bid  each  pale  pearl 
Mirror  the  one  who'd  wear  them  on  his  heart; 
Rape  her  cool  lips  of  honeyed  whisperings, 
And  lay  them  on  the  altar  of  mine  ears, 
Deaf  to  all  other  offerings !     Oh !  glide, 
Obsequious  music,  carpeting  thy  feet 
Upon  the  breathing  silence  of  the  night; 
Yet  wake  her  not,  but  seek  some  oracle. 
Inquiry  make  of  drowsiness  and  dreams. 
What  thought  it  was  that  came,  the  last  sweet  guest 
Of  that  large  host,  her  charitable  heart; 
Lest  even  I,  or  but  the  thought  of  me, 
Made  music  in  that  hallowed  atmosphere, 
Mayhap  sat  on  her  eyes  when  they  were  lost 
In  Lethe     .     .     .     even  I  might  be 
The  ghost  of  that  which  ushered  in  her  dream  I 

57 


s 


ill: 


THE  vSYBARITE. 

"The  Sybarite  affirmeil  that  he   could  not  sleep  fur  lying 
upon  a  ruffled  rose-leaf. " 

I   GLANCED  once  from  the  chambers  of  delight, 
Through  the  broad  casement  that  was  builded 
there 
By  drowsy  thought,  upon  a  summer's  night. 

When  fragrance  hung  too  fragrant  on  the  air; 
I  gazed  between  the  curtains  that  hung  low, 
And  woven  were  of  rare  and  dreamy  things 
That  come  and  go, 
Like  dust  of  sweet  dead  flowers  that  night  winds  blow 
Into  the  eyes  of  sated  slumberings. 

I  saw  the  weary  moon  recline  athwart 
A  cloud  of  summer's  getting,  and  she  gazed 

In  the  arcana  of  mine  eyes,  methought, 
Till  they  grew  purple-shot,  and  dimly  glazed 

Like  windows  of  dull  stained  and  time-cracked  glass ; 
And  oft  the  music  of  a  nameless  tongue 
That  sang  "Alas!" 

Did  pass  about  mine  ears,  and  then  repass. 

All  meaningless,  like  singings  over-sung. 

58 


And  then  her  bosom's  hot  caress  did  melt 

Her  cloudy  couch  into  a  weeping  rain 
That  veiled  her  from  mine  eyes ;  though  yet  they  felt 

That  nameless  incantation,  and  the  pain 
Of  something  lost,  or  fading,  yet  half-seen, 

Some  song  half-heard,  that  sinks  upon  its  wings: 
Some  wreck  of  green 
That  would  have  been  a  blossom,  had  it  been 

A  thing  that  could  defy  its  prisonings. 

I  lay  where  many  roses,  plucked  apart, 

Tremored  knee-deep  upon  the  marble  floor, 
Amid  unfettered  melodies  that  dart 

Through  all  things  fair ;  and,  as  the  long  night  wore 
Her  bosom  into  paly  dawn  with  dreams. 

The  moon  still  held  me  in  that  thrall  of  mist. 
With  lampless  gleams 
Of  shuttered  eyes — more  fair  than  fancy  deems,  — 

And  lips  that  part  with  kisses  yet  unkissed. 

Then  summoned  I  a  youth,  amid  the  throng 

Of  liveried  ministers  that  idle  were, 
And  bade  him  take  a  lute  and  lip  a  song. 

And  bugle  me  a  fretted  war  with  care ; 
And  he  upon  the  borders  of  my  bed 

Sank  into  music's  attitude,  and  then 
Attuned  and  fed 
My  spirit  with  sweet  nourishment — blood,  bled 

From  wounds  the  world  had  made,  and  kissed  again. 

59 


^1 


V' 


■f 


i 


And  lo!  his  pale  brow  sank  upon  the  strings, 

And  snapped  them  with  the  moisture  of  a  sigh; 
And  faintly  came  again  the  stir  of  wings, 

Filled  with  the  pain  of  things  that  cannot  die 
And  yet  are  not  forgotten — still  unsought, 

Unsated  still  with  weird  wandering, 
All  music-fraught, 
Beside  the  awful  Acheron  of  thought, 

Upon  the  bleak  sad  shore  of  pondering. 

And  far  within  a  sky  of  fancy's  make 

I  felt  an  unseen  moon,  amid  the  mist 
That  shook  with  inner  radiance,  as  shake 

Hot  lips  that  long  to  kiss  and  to  be  kissed ; 
And  I  was  lost  with  seeking  her,  and  dank 

With  heavy  dew  that  weighed  upon  mine  head; 
And  my  lips  drank 
The  vaporous  springs  of  many  a  mouldy  bank 

From  whose  white  shine  the  weary  tempests  fed. 

And  when  I  wept,  my  tears  were  changed  to  clouds 
That  clave  unto  mine  eyes,  and  there  o'erhung 

Their  nakedness,  as  prayerful  pity  shrouds 
The  pain  upon  dead  lips  that  have  been  stung 

By  what  they  kissed,  yet  kiss  again  and  die. 
Mine  ears  were  full  of  half-heard  eloquence. 
Yet  knew  nor  why. 

Nor  whence  had  come  that  sweet  thin  melody. 

But  fed  upon  the  song,  without  the  sense. 

60 


And  then  the  mist  in  which  I  beat  my  wings 

Gave  chilly  birth  unto  a  summer  rain, 
And  I  sank  with  it,  as  one  sinks  and  sings. 

Whose  tongue  hath  clean  forgot  his  heart's  refrain 
Nor  will  remain  its  aching  confidant, 

But  sets  upon  a  journey  of  its  own; 
Mad  ministrant 
Of  blasphemy,  and  sighs  that  inly  pant 

From  lips  whose  music  is  a  monotone. 

Ah  me!     I  lay  again  by  him  who  slept 

Upon  his  lute  in  luted  slumberings: 
And  through  the  curtains  came  the  dawn,  and  wept 

To  see  the  sum  of  my  vain  numberings, 
Upon  whose  many  strings  no  note  might  pass 

Save  the  swift  climax  of  a  dumb  despair 
That  sang  "Alas!" 
The  sad  sweet  tinkle  of  an  empty  glass 

Whose  wine  is  spilt  upon  the  sands  of  care. 

Then  I  among  the  ruined  roses  found 

One  petal  which  had  paled  benerth  my  heart, 

All  folded  length-and-crosswise,  and  even  bound 
With  frost-frayed  edges,  and  I  said,  "  Thou  art 

Well  slumberless,  for  this  shut  flower  hath  bruised 
Thine  ease  into  a  thing  of  garnered  sighs. 
And  so,  misused. 

Thy  heart  begot  rebellion,  and  refused 

To  harbor  Lethe  when  she  sought  thine  eyes." 

6i 


fir 


1  I 

' 

1 

I 

1 

1 1 

J 

*Twas  that  and  only  that!     I  will  it  so: 

Great  things  may  come  of  small,  and  dreams  may 
brood 
From  ruffled  love-locks.     Be  it  joy  or  wee, 

'Tis  but  the  subtle  flavor  of  their  food — 
Their  food,  the  heart — and  mine  was  nourishment 

Ill-lipped  for  joy,  who  bade  his  brother  woe 
Eat  discontent, 
And  fatten  upon  dreams,  until  he  blent 

With  all  sweet  things  that  come,  and  coming,  go! 

Macon,  Ga.,  January  30,  1889. 

62 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY. 

BRIGHT  pensioner  of  wormy  servitude, 
Freed  from  thy  thrall  of  .silken  cerement, 
As  though  a  dirge,  in  some  sweet  interlude, 

Had  burst  into  melodious  merriment; 
Thou  smile  upon  the  sullen  lips  of  time, 

Thine  is  a  part 
Too  brief  in  Earth's  long  farce  for  laggard  rhyme 
To  make  a  theme  of  moralizing  art ; 
And  oh!    too  near,    too   dear,  unto  the  rhymer's 
heart. 


Light  thief  of  pleasure,  I  could  wish  thee  ill, 

To  find  so  sweet  a  sympathy  of  tears; 
As  one  would  crush  a  laughing  daffodil 

In  fading  finger,  palsied  by  the  years, 
And  die  in  such  fair  company  that  death 

Upon  the  wing 
Of  some  rich  dream  might  pluck  the  withered  breath 

From  the  faint  lips,  and  hush  the  chimes  that  ring 

With  time-cracked  dusty  throat  and  tuneless  rea- 
soning. 

Alas!  frail  child  of  Spring's  young  motherhood, 
Thou  art  ill-flavored  nourishment  for  death : 
Rather  the  rich  and  summer-ripened  food 

Of  joy's  red  lips — F.nd  yet,  if  thy  swift  breath 

63 


I       I 


11: 


t     pi 


Must  still  confess  a  ceasing,  let  there  be 

For  thy  lone  bier 
Warm-tinted  buds  in  evening  revelry, 

And  high-piled  petals,  making  odorous  cheer 
In  death's  dim  banquet  halls  when  thy  pale  ghost 
draws  near. 

Farther  among  the  flowers  thy  beauties  fade, 

Leaving  no  epitaph  of  echoes,  nor 
One  memory  of  glory.     Hadst  thou  stayed, 

Thy  fettered  joy  had  sunken  into  awe. 
For  lovely  things  are  things  most  mutable ; 

And  oh!  'tis  death 
Whose  lips  are  fixed  and  frozen,  and  even  full 

Of  wormy  silence,  where  the  panting  breath 

Is  hushed,  as  though  for  thee  the  dumb  ear  lis- 
teneth. 

Ah  me!     Mine  eyes  play  tempter  to  my  tongue! 

My  tongue  breeds  cankered  warfare  in  my  heart; 
My  heart  is  but  a  purple  song  unsung, 

Save  in  the  pathos  of  a  minor  part, 
Whose  sweeter  chords  are  clogged  with  aching  clay: 

And  yet,  like  thee, 
I  dream  within  a  dome  of  summer  day, 

And  lap  the  milk  of  buds,  until  I  fiee, 

A  pilgrim  of  the  eternal,  in  thy  com  pany. 

March,  1889. 

64 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LOTUS  FLOWER. 
[Published  in  Otur  a  IVtwl-.] 

IN  bloomy  thickets  where  youn^tif  liyacinths  blow, 
Where   dreams  the  dullard  bee,  even  while  he 
sips 
Hymettean  sweetness  from  the  chaliced  flow 
Of  myriad  blossoms,  where  the  tall  oaks  grow 

In  mossen  dotage,  Lotus  lay,  with  lips 
That  taught  each  bud  an  eloquence 
It  could  not  echo, — lips  whose  red  suspense 
Bet.    low  the  listening  ear  with  raptured  reverence. 


Pale  thought  and  pilgrim  fancies  wandered  o'er 

TLc  blue- veined  tracery  of  lidded  eyes; 

And  whispering  sleep  bent  heavy-kneed  before 

Her  forest  couch,  and  muttered  drowsy  lore, 

Soft  cadences,  and  far-heard  melodies. 

Until  her  lengthy  breathing  blent 

With  laggard  dreams,  in  restful  measurement 

Of  droning  leaves  and  flowers  that  mouthed  their 

own  content. 
5  65 


•  t 


/e^ 


f  II 


w 


'••Hi 


li!ii| 


Then  purple-lipped  Priapns  chanced  to  pass, 
In  quest  of  some  brij^^ht-eyed  Bacchante ;  there 

He  paused  in  listening  quiet,  and,  alas! 

He  saw  sweet  Lotus  in  the  golden  grass, 
And  kissed  her  lips  again  to  wakeful  care. 

She  fled  to  oaken  solitudes 

Where  but  the  music-throated  thrush  intrudes 

With  shrill-tongued  reveille  and  twilight  interludes. 

But  to  the  tongueless  silence  of  each  spot 
Priapus  came  in  wine-begotten  wrath ; 
And  when  he  found  her  in  a  weedy  plot 
Of  tangled  water-side,  where  willows  blot 
The  mottled  tracery  of  woodland  path, 
Again  sweet  Lotus  fled  away: 
And  through  the  wave  Priapus  saw  a  ray 
Of  sunny-tinted  hair  grow  dank  and  muddy-gray. 

Oh!  where  is  she?     Oh!  where  hath  Lotus  fled? 

In  what  grecn-lintelled  home  doth  she  dream  on, 
With  pale  anemone  about  her  head, 
Till  buds  have  grown  to  flowers  within  her  bed. 

And  garnered  seeds  have  made  their  petals  wan? 

Is  there  no  purple-chaliced  tear 

In  yonder  violet-bed,  to  mark  the  bier 

Of  one  whose   eyes   are   shut   to   dream   away  the 

year? 

66 


:-| 


Oh!  there,  where  waters  sleep,  sweet  Lotus  lies, 
And,  margining  the  deep  with  dimpled  breast, 
She  turns  the  petalled  pathos  of  her  eyes 
Toward  the  infinite;  and  in  the  skies 

Her  sprite  is  tented  by  the  wings  of  rest. 
Priapus  found  Bacchante  in  the  shade 
Of  mossy  eaves,  and  there  beside  the  maid 
An  amber-hearted  amphora  was  laid. 

67 


IP" 


:!  ■ 


-i!^ 


AN  ANSWER  TO  A  PROPOSAL. 

I. 

THERE'S  a  little  myrtle  alley 
Where  the  birds  sing-  musically, 
Answering  the  forlorn  shiver 
Of  the  rushes  in  the  river 
Which  you  see,  through  trunk  and  branches, 
Flowing  on  by  twenty  ranches, 
And  the  blue  sky  bent  above  it, 
With  the  blue  hills  almost  of  it. 
Here  her  hammock  had  been  swung, 
And  her  small  guitar  was  flung 
Like  her  second  self,  within  it. 
Saying:  "  She  has  gone  a  minute 
For  some  knick-knack" — so  I  waited 
Till  the  gate-hinge  creaked  and  grated, 
And  she  came  toward  me,  singing, 
Arms  akimbo,  sideways  swinging, 
With  a  sprig  of  myrtle  netted 

In  the  spun  gold  of  her  tresses. 
No  Bacchante — satyr-petted. 

Lilting  all  her  heart  confesses, 

68 


Ever  seemed  so  joy-inspiring! 

No  nun,  hushed,  or  saint-fatiguing, 
Cold  heart's  ashes  vainly  firing 

Had  e'er  face  with  such  a  leaguing 
Of  all  sanctities— yet  human 
"  Prima-facie"— was  this  woman. 

11. 

Seeing  me,  she  started. 

Singing  lips  half-parted 

Like  a  shell,  but  oh !  the 

Greeting  that  flows  through  the 

Scarlet  orifice  is 

Scarce  the  sound  of  kisses! 

Said  I,  then :     "  Forever, 

Speak  the  now  or  never 

Of  my  soul!  thine  Alpha 

And  Omega  shall  for 

Me  be  final.     Sit,  then; 

Due  deliberation 

Fits  the  judge's  station;  " 

And  my  lips  I  bit  then 

Till  a  tiny  trickling 

Fell  carnation,  tickling 

Chin  and  neck  a  little. 

What  cared  I  a  tittle. 

When  the  rapt  suspense 

Of  a  fine  sixth  sense 

Stood  as  harp-string  tense? 

69 


t^r^ 


4J111HI 


I 


III. 

"So,"  she  said,  "you  love  me;  well,  then, 

I  would  ask  you  too  a  question, 
Very  easily  answered:  Tell,  then — 

Tell  me,  after  due  digestion 
Of  the  query's  meaning,  would  you 

Mean  by  any  chance  that  merely 
You  wished  to  be  mv  husband?     This  is 

Something  touching  me  more  nearly 
Than  a  thc>usand  idle  kisses! 

For  I'll  be  the  wife  of  no  man! 

Yet  I  own  myself  a  woman, 
Feeling  for  you  some  affection. 

Which  would  fly  if  you  consented 
To  be  merely  the  election 

Of  a  woman. " 

"  Be  contented 

Yet  there's  still  a  way."     I  said  then, 

"  Hope  is  not  entirely  dead  then — 

Split  the  difference." 

So  I  won  her; 

God's  wide  blessing  icst  upon  her! 

70 


MOON  AND  ROCKS. 


A    SONNET. 

/^  H  !  tender  siren  of  the  star-swept  night, 
V-y     Eternal  shepherdess  of  unshorn  flocks! 

The  awful  void  of  thy  cold  sheep-fold  mocks 
This  bleating  thought  of  thine  unthought  delight. 

Thy  golden  bosom  pillowed  on  the  height 
Of  yon  slow-paling  cloud,  and  thy  long  locks, 
Cooling  the  sun-caught  fever  of  these  rocks 

Where  I  have  fled  the  world's  unkind  despite, 

Breed  bitter  discord  in  the  time-built  truce 
Of  shackled  spirit  and  beleaguered  clay, 

Whose  hot  artillery  of  tears  reduce 

That  proud  melodious  citadel,  and  slay 

Its  joyous  soldiery,  that  else  would  march 

Like  seried  stars  in  thine  eternal  arch. 

AlARCH   15,  1890. 

71 


I 


t^t    tf'll 


I 

M 
if 


I 


lit    I 


■:  t 


m    '!f:i'!i 


CHANT    DE   NUIT. 


ST.     AUGUSTINE. 


LAND  and  sea  and  sky  are  tonguelcss; 
Hear  the  waters  musically 
vSigh  like  love-birds,  heard,  yet  songless, 

In  a  myrtle  alley ! 
Earth  is  wrinkled,  old  and  gray, 

Scarred  and  seared  by  self-dissectior  ; 
God  him"^'  ■'^^  hath  pr.s:  vu  aw.  y 
T:..  Longue-tied  creed,  and  pious  fray, 
And  brotherly  correction. 

'Nita,  where  the  moonbeams  fall 

O'er  pale  waters  musically, 
Calling  her  as  love-birds  call 

In  yonder  myrtle  alley — 
Gave  her  word  to  meet  me  here. 

Promised  to  bring  kisses: 

Where  can  'Nita  be  then,  where? 

Or  do  her  light  feet  fear  to  dare 

A  night  of  dreams  as  this  is? 

72 


i 


'Nita  is  all  ' Nita  now, — 

Love,  all  love,  in  love's  each  sally, 
Witless  as  a  love-bird's  vow 

In  yonder  myrtle  alley. 
Mighty  in  her  ignorance, 

And  wise  in  very  lack  of  learnino-  __ 
God  forbid  the  luckless  chance 
That  ruins  sinless  circumstance 

With  sinful  self-discerning! 

Go  manufacture  sin  and  halter! 

Pay  for  priests  to  keep  the  tally! 
God,  who  made,  alone  can  alter 

Yonder  myrtle  alley! 
Human  sins,  nine  times  in  ten. 

Were  sins  alone  to  those  who  named  them ; 
And  half  the  world  were  sinless  men, 
Until  the  glorious  moment  when 
The  other  half  reclaimed  them. 

And  'Nita,  dark-eyed  'Nita  knows 

Herself  no  more  intrinsically. 
Than  the  love-bird,  or  a  rose 

In  a  myrtle  alley. 
So,  I  love  her,  and  again 

May  God  forbid  that  modern  learninrr 
Teacheth  her  to  know,  and  strain 
Her  heart-strings,  searching  for  the  p:iin 

That  comes  of  self-discerning! 

73 


September  ig,  1890. 


ERGO  RUM. 


ilHii 


iiii 


LINES    l^PON  THK    SEASHORE. 

THE  sea  leaps  to  my  feet,  and  dies 
Like  morning  dreair  .  in  open  eyes, 
When  renovated  consciou:.^.ess 
Forgets  what  sleepless  hours  confess. 
The  sky  is  laden,  and  the  swift 
Wind-battered  clouds  in  remnants  drift 
To  catch  the  sun-beams,  gem  by  gem. 
In  dying  daylight's  diadem. 

O  God !     To  be,  and  not  to  be ! 
To  live,  and  feel,  and  not  to  think! 

To  see  all  sights  that  are  to  see, 

All  beauty  and  all  purity, 
To  disconnect  them,  link  by  link, 

Into  the  dreams  that  linger  on 

The  vanguard  of  oblivion ' 
And  this  is  what  those  clouds  are ;  I 

Am  but  the  clod  that  thinks  of  them : 

Like  muddy  pools  whose  ripples  dye 

Themselves  with  every  depth  of  sky 

That  trembles  o'er  the  brinks  of  them. 

74 


Man  hath  said  that  God  is  not, 

Unless  he  be  a  Mind,  a  Soul  ; 
'I'u/Tj,  Xoyo? — call  it  what 

You  will— to  me  it  is  the  whole 
Circumference  of  misery. 

Specification  of  our  clay, 
This  "  Ergo  Sum,"  this  sad  "  to  be," 

This  power  to  think!— and  so,  to  say 
"I  am;" — because  I  cannot  be 

The  thing  I  wish,  the  thing  I  dream. 
The  thing  of  which  I  envy  thee, 
Oh!  sea-born  mist,  and  sky-born  sea, 
Thou  pool  with  lily  coronet, 

Thy  music,  thou  eternal  stream. 
Where,  flower-hedged,  thy  waters  fret. 
Whose  ripple  lips  are  never  dumb. 
Although  they  say  not  "  Ergo  Sum. " 

The  sun  is  set,  the  sky  hath  met 
The  waters  in  that  veil  of  jet 
That  curtains  their  communion ;  I 

Stand  ankle-deep  and  know  it  not ; 
For,  after  all,  though  ripples  die 

Upon  the  sands,  yet  is  the  spot 
In  some  kind  held  in  simple  fee 

For  those  that  follow.     Still  the  why 
And  wherefore  is  not  known  to  me. 
And  yet  I  think  if  I  could  be 
A  link  in  God's  totality— 

75 


h'! 


■I 


'•    i 


w 


(I 


189a 


Unsheathed  of  fleshly  circumstance, 

Nor  demarcated  by  the  touch 
Of  knowledge  or  of  ignorance: 

A  total  nothing,  part  of  much, 
Such  as  these  clouds  are,  I  should  then 

Feel  no  Promethean  impotence. 

Nor  seek  the  "  wherefore"  or  the  "  whence" 
Of  sea  and  sky,  of  gods  and  men ; 

But,  like  a  music  which  divides 

And  is  but  one  with  many  sides 
In  interlinking  harmony. 

Although  I  could  not  think,  and  sigh, 
And  feel,  and  think  I  could  not  be, 
Yet  I  should  know  unconsciously 

That  many,  many-tongued  reply 

Which  solveth  man's  coeval  "why!" 

76 


THE    GLOW-WORM. 


TniXK  you  we  are  what  we  think  we  are 
In  the  clay? 
Can  a  glow-worm  think  himself  a  star, 

As  they  say? 
Seeing-  his  own  shadow  still  a  worm 

In  his  glow, 
Watching  his  long  shadow  twist  and  squirm, 

Can  he  know 
'Tis  his  own  light   shadows  forth  his  clay 

In  the  night? 
Pointing  out  his  lean  and  wormy  way? 

His  own  light? 
Knew  he  this,  would  he  be  wormy  still? 

Squirm  and  twist? 
Knew  we  this,  would  life  still  lead  up  hill 

In  the  mist? 
Knew  we  this,  would  strength  fail  in  our  need? 

Soul  bear  scars? 
Is  the  worm's  fire  not  the  self-same  breed 

As  the  star's? 
December  15,  1890. 

77 


i 


iM 


N 


NIGHT. 

CHRISTMAS,    1890. 

OW  the  white  hollow  of  the  day's  spread  wings 
Sinks  rippling  into  darkness,  and  is  gone! 


■I!!! 


«-    llili  :!l 


1'!! 


The  long  night's  brooding  calm  oppresses  me. 
The  ache  of  no  sound,  and  the  moon's  cold  white; 
The  blanched  earth  and  the  sky  hung  over  it, 
Swelling  with  thimder  and  quite  bare  of  stars ; 
Communion  of  dumb  trees  and  shuddering  winds; 
The  frozen  baldness  of  cathedral  spires ; 
The  cold  sea,  baring  cheek  and  bosom  to 
The  dead  moon,  and,  for  love  of  her  faint  kiss. 
Still  shoreward  stumbling  in  the  dark  forever! 


78 


TO  A  LIVIXO  PREACHER   OF   INFIDELITY. 

TO  be  a  rebel  is  a  noble  thing; 
But  thou  art  but  a  slave,  who  loves  his  chains, 
Nor  knows  the  name  of  freedom,  yet  would  fling 

His  envious  sneer  upon  all  that  disdains 
His  foul  corruption.     Thou  wouldst  jjlant  thy  sting 
And  sully  with  thy  heart's  corroding  stains 
All  things  that  are  yet  fair,  to  glory  in  thy  pains. 

Hath  yonder  purpling  ocean  no  mute  prayer 
For  hearts  like  thine?     Can  thy  polluted  eyes 

Count  the  bright  stars,  the  high,  the  darkly  fair, 
And  lie  tmto  thy  lips,  till  they  despise 

That  which  they  cannot  lisp'     Alas!  despair 
Must  teach  thy  heart  the  lesson  it  defies. 
And  sing  thy  tuneless  ear  a  p^ean  from  the  skies. 


i 


Oh!  tell  us.  Glory,  who  hath  made  thy  creed, 
Which  countless  lips  count  o'er  in  pale  unrest. 

While  the  frail  heart's  vain  hope  and  longing  feed 
The  worm  thou  hast  engendered;  what  vain  jest 

Tempts  thee  to  deck  the  dull  and  soulless  weed 

79 


*• 


l.>  .:«". 


t   .i 


PI 

-I    i 


ill 


With  honor's  trappings  and  a  jaudy  crest, 
While  many  a  violet  dies  unseen  in  some  green 
nest? 

•  •  •  •  •  f 

Alas !  how  hast  thou  made  a  sport  of  one 
Who  cannot  see  the  path  his  footsteps  tread. 

But  staggers  0:1  till  his  brief  day  is  done, 

With  piteous  mirth — from  his  own  weakness  fed — 

Upon  those  lips  whose  laughter  cannot  siiun 

The  shadow  of  the  end,  where  all  are  led 

To  take  a  nameless  place  among  the  nameless  dead ! 

80 


I  I 


r   V 


THE   UxNSEEN   SINGER. 

O  V  all  my  soul  must  be 
^     When  death  devours  me, 
Worn  limb  from  limb  and  weary  bone  from  bone, 
I  never  dreamed  or  thought 
That  all  the  music  taught 
By  God  to  clay  could  equal  thine  alone  I 

Lost  there  among  the  leaves 

Like  some  mad  thought  that  heaves 
The  ceils  and  knotted  tangles  of  the  brain, 

The  fire  of  thine  intense 

Life  conquers  soul  and  sense, 
Until  to  see  thee  singing  were  a  pain; 


To  see,  and  so  to  crush 

Imagination's  rush 
Of  dreams  that  bear  thee  starward  through  the  night ; 

To  see,  and  so  to  say  : 

"God  writes  a  psalm  in  clay!" 
For  faith  in  God  himself  would  die  at  sioht' 

6  8i 


1^ 


X    V 


il     Mi 

■I! 


But  when  the  air's  a-tremble 

With  singings  that  assemble 
All  shapeless  ecstasies  and  visions  vain, 

The  sweep  of  our  own  wings, 

In  seeking  him  that  sings, 
Makes  angels  of  us  in  doubt's  passing  pain ! 


And  so  thou  art  a  type 

Of  God,  whose  song  is  ripe 

For  all  men,  and,  to  find  the  singer,  we 
Have  risen  from  the  mire. 
Are  what  we  are,  and  higher 

Must  wander  on,  until  we  cease  to  be ! 


'ii 


I '      '  ijlll 


For  if  the  clearest  eyes 

That  ever  read  the  skies 
In  fullest  vision  pictured  God  to  men. 

The  end  of  things  would  be : 

The  mire  cries  "  man"  for  me 
When  doubts  are  solved  and  peace  hath  come  again. 

This  peace  and  death  are  one — 
This  longing  after  none 
Of  those  impossibles  that  hang  above 
The  utmost  grasp  of  us — 
The  fruit  of  Tantalus, 

WhoSx.  swaying  shadow  is  our  faith  and  love! 

82 


I 


Thou  dost  not  sing-  such  peace! 
That  sinking-  and  increase- 
That  silence  now,  that  rush  of  music  then- 
Are  not  the  drowsy  flow 
Of  lips  that  murmur  "Go, 
Disturb  us  not,  we  wish  to  sleep  again!" 

So  joy  and  sadness  both, 
Though  sadness  something  loath 
Are  mates  for  life  whose  mad  hopes  never  cease; 
But  God,  whose  glory  dies 
Each  evening  in  the  skies— 

'Tis  He  alone  that  is,  and  must  be,  Peace 
January,  1891. 

83 


1. 


jli 


THE   vSUICIDE. 


In  ancient  Mexico  it  was  the  custom  to  {^ratify  every  whim 
and  caprice  of  a  living;-  sacrifice  during  the  year  jirevious  to 
his  immolation. 

YE  whose  fair  task  it  is  to  spill  my  blood, 
To  make  this  clay  a  wormy  legacy 
Unto  the  future,  hear  me  for  a  space; 
For  in  the  year  ye  gave  me  to  grow  fat 
In  idleness  and  kisses,  I  have  learned 
Much  wisdom  and  more  patience.     On  the  whole, 
The  death  ye  grant  is  all  that  I  could  be 
Still  curious  concerning — most  cold  death, 
Most  clotted,  wormy,  macerated  death — 
The  thing  I  know  not — I,  whose  cheek  is  warm 
With  fever;  I,  whose  eyes  were  ever  wont 
To  emulate  that  poor  unstable  star 
Whose  every  breath  is  brightly  changeable ! 

If  ye  remember,  for  the  first  two  moons 
I  asked  for  music,  wine,  and  dancing-girls ; 
Loose-tongued    companions,    who    made  wings    for 

time. 
That  could  not  lift  his  great  imwieldy  bulk 

84 


From  my  crushed  head  and  heart.     Lo !  sleep  forsook 

My  eyes,  and  then  'twas,  first,  I  thought  of  death. 

I  paced  upon  the  earth-commanding  brow 

Of  yon  great  temple,  till  I  saw  the  dawn 

Grow^  broader,  like  a  smile  upon  the  lips 

Of  some  loved  woman ;  and  the  pale  shy  stars 

Were  veiled  and  interknitted  by  their  own 

Slow  golden  overflow ;  and  all  v/as  still 

In  an  unbreathing  silence,  as  though  death 

Had  hushed  the  haunting  echoes  of  the  dav. 

And  himself  slept  in  his  own  dreamlessness. 

And  there  I  shook  the  breath  of  wine  from  me, 

The  kisses  and  love-tales  that  rotted  in 

My  fore-doomed  heart ;  and  when  the  sun  arose 

I  slept  like  one  that  hath  been  cast  ashore 

On  the  warm  golden  sands  to  find  a  couch — 

And  peace  unutterable.     From  that  time 

Fve  dwelt  within  the  vast  and  shadowed  depths 

Of  forest-deserts;  and  men  think  me  mad, 

One  whom  anticipation  weighed  upon. 

For  whom  dream.s  made  sleep  madness,  till  the  brain 

Awoke  no  more;  and  partly  they  were  right: 

For  who  hath  smiled  on  death,  as  I  do  now, 

Nor  thought  with  other  men.    .    .    .     Lo!  I  am  mad, 

If  madness  is  to  think  athwart  the  time ; 

To  build  one's  temporal  environments 

Of  timeless  meditation  and  to  pass 

To  old  age  in  no  age! 

85 


'  * 


Men  come  and  go 

And  think  not  whence  they  come,  nor  where  they  go  : 

But  measure  time  by  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars. 

To  know  themselves,  and  individualize 

Their  little  epoch.     Men  of  finer  stuff — 

Men  who  construct  a  personality 

Of  light  and  thought  and  spirit ;  men  who  build 

Upon  this  base  and  pedestal  of  clay 

A  fiery  statue  of  their  own  intense 

And  lightning-like  vitality — 'tis  these 

Whose  pulsing  life  out-wrestlcs  deatli,  and  passes 

Into  that  newer  tenement,  and  fills 

Its  fibrous  speculation  with  a  fire 

That  burns  forever. 

Ye  who  walk  upon 

The  path  your  fathers  trod,  and  see  no  deep 

And  awful  vistas  stretched  upon  each  side 

Unto  the  dim  horizon  which  is  God — 

Ye  find  a  grave  dug  at  the  farther  end, 

And  there  ye  stop,  and  sleep,  and  feed  young  worms 

That  live  as  ye  have  lived,  to  green  old  age, 

And  die  as  ye  will  die.     Yet  ye  set  up 

A  god  to  serve  who  serveth  also  you, 

Bends  to  your  lips  to  catch  the  impure  breath 

That  floats  in  poisonous  vapors  from  the  earth 

And  breeds  night-gendered  fungi,  and  soft  toads. 

Slime-vestured  types  of  twice  ten  thousand  prayers; 

And  from  the  tongue  of  this  divinity 

86 


Ye  draw  eternal  life,  as  I  would  pluck 
A  reed,  and  breathe  into  its  hollow  heart 
And  find  the  music  I  was  fondest  of— 
Be  it  a  hymn  or  drinking-song! 

What  say  ye, 
The  time  is  come  for  sacrifice? 

Well,  well! 
Stay,  while  I  look  once  more  upon  the  sky, 
So  charactered  and  so  unreadable. 
So  full  of  music  and  sweet  tongueless  sounds. 
So  full  of  perfume,  when  the  summer-winds 
Drink  the  buds  dry.     Stay,  while  I  gaze  again 
Upon  my  refuge:— the  quiet  assemblages 
Of  mossy-bearded  centenarians. 
That  seem  to  take  me  with  their  long  green  arms 
And  call  me  to  the  feet  of  them,  to  lie 
And  dream  sweet  things  among  the  berried  shrubs 
That  slipper  their  worn  feet.     Of  such  a  shrub, 
That  which  hangs  low  with  purple  treasury 
Of  lush  large  berries,  I  did  eat  my  fill, 
Pressing  their  bursting  forms  upon  my  tongue 
And  sucking  out  the  bitter  juice  of  them, 
And  saying:  Death,  if  thou  canst  lurk  within 
Full-fleshed  vitality;  if  thou  art  thus 
A  guest  in  the  whispering  hostelry  of  life  ; 
There  is  in  thee  some  music  which  we  hear  not, 
Some  sweet  potentiality  of  that 
Which  is  not  desolation  and  despair. 

87 


f 


li'  i 


I  find  no  poison  in  so  fair  a  dish 
Upon  God's  tabic — so  I  sup  with  Him, 
And  He  is  host;  and  I  thus  bow  to  Him — 
And — ye  are  fading  from  me.   .  .   . 

Pull  that  rug 
To  my  numb  feet,  that  I  may  rest  a  space, 
For  I  can  look  upon  the  sun  unblinded — 
So  dim  mine  eyes  are! 

Are  ye  ready,  then? 
I  also  .   .   .   but  go  with  you — not  to-day. 


bo 


Ml 


i      1 


li' 


MEMORIES. 

A    STUDY    IN    E    MINOR. 

HEAVENS!     Do  you  call  t/us  Easter-love,  when 
the  air 

Hangs  leaden-like  with  perfume?     When  the  sky 
Gathers  her  flock  of  moon-deserted  stars 
Into  a  haze  of  golden  ether? 

Listen ! 
That  faint  full  monotone  of  breakers,  dying 
In  sighs  upon  the  beach 


The  laughing  leap 
Of  little  star-lit  wa^-es  upon  the  feet 
Of  Marco's  battlements,  f/icsc  second  me 
And  cry  "Amen"  to  my  poor  lip-worn  prayer. 
Forget  the  unlovely  resolution  which 
Lurks  like  a  baffling  lump  of  poison  in 
Thy  life's  full  cup!     Oh,  be  a  child  of  all 
The  years  that  have  been  and  are  yet  to  be! 
To  crown  eternity  with  love— this  is 
Thy  mission,  and  the  convent  yonder, 

89 


vw: 


IP 


m 


K  J 


lU 


'  I 


I  i 


Where  the  star-echoes  sleep  like  children  dreaming 

Upon  the  cool  dome  of  a  spring-dug  grave, 

Is  full  of  bones  that  never  knew  the  flesh, 

Yet  might  have  been  as  fair  as  thou  art  now, 

With  summer  in  the  chock,  the  quickening  essence 

Of  night  in  their  deep  eyes,  and  music  in 

The  very  sighs  of  them,  as  sweet  as  that 

Which  seemeth  like  assent  upon  thy  lips, 

Now,  even  now!  .   .   . 

That  "yes"  means  life  to  me. 

And  love,  and  .   .    . 

Hush!    What  mellow  choir  is  there? 

The  hymn?    Ah!    yes,    the  Easter  hymn  .   .    .    and 

listen 

How  the  notes  blend,  as  if  an  alchemy 

Made  the  poor  dross  of  many  tongues  and  hearts 

A  golden  unity  of  music!     What? 

Weeping?     Yes,  I  too  feel  the  tears  in  that 

"vSanta  Maria,"  and  the  rest  of  it; 

A  fallacy,  sung  on  a  night  like  this, 

Hath  more  conviction  in  it  than  the  muttered 

Truths  of  .   .   . 

What?     You  say  "farewell"  to  me? 

And  a  few  harmonies  have  blotted  out 

That  "yes"  of  thine?  the  misbegotten  child 

Of  love  and  reason? 

Go,  then — leave  me  here 

Like  some  foul  toad  that  sits  among  the  fens 

90 


I     ! 


ill 


And  brews  green  poison !     Seek  some  butterfly 
As  thou  art,  sick  with  honey  that  ferments 
In  every  summer  air  that  breathes  on  it! 

O  God!  That  music  hath  o'er-brimmed  mine  eyes, 
Yet  is  but  music  ...   and  I  am  alone. 

91 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

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MARCO   MIALE. 


I    1 


MARCO  MIALE— cardinal— stood  forth, 
Hushing  the  mingled  voices  with  "Amen!" 
To-day's  long  task  is  finished,  for  the  sun 
Rims  the  dim  west  with  glory.     Hush !  one — two- 
There 's  the  boom  .  .   .  boom  .  .   .  of  the  Angelus! 

Enough 
Of  whys  and  wherefores,  and  that  matter  of 
The  new-built  monastery,  nestling  far 
Among  the  purple  Eugandan  hills — 
And  still  unpaid  for;  God's  time  is  not  ours. 
See,  Matteo  lays  the  board,  there,  where  the  rock 
Bears  that  alcove  above  the  pine-tree  tops. 
Look  at  the  broad  blue  shadows  of  the  night 
Resting  among  the  vineyards !     Those  white  spots 
Are  dwelling-places,  and  that  darker  patch 
Is  a  broad  field  of  uncut  grain ;  but  there, 
Away  there,  where  the  blue-black  hills  shoot  up 
Into  the  golden  sky — I  see  the  lake, 
Bearing  the  last  slant  shaft  of  fire  that  breaks 
The  mist  through  .   .  and,   d'ye  know,  I've  seen  a 
soul 

Not  unlike  this.     First,  its  totality 

92 


Was  God — just  as  the  unseen  all  of  this 

Is   the  whole  w<  rid.     Then  there  were   mists  that 

hung 
Over  its  fields  of  cut  and  uncut  grain ; 
And  then  death  came,  as  night  comes  to  us  now, 
Moulding  the  stiffening  lips  into  a  smile. 


Too  curious,  I  fear,  too  curious — 

What  is't  to  you  what  thoughts  I  thought,  or  where 

I  wandered?     Yet,  sit  nearer,  and  the  tale 

Shall,  as  you  wish,  be  told  you,  then.     A  woman? 

A  woman,  say  you?     Ay,  it  was  a  woman! 

And  yet  why  should  1"  trust  the  thing  to  you, 

To  whom,  as  soldier  of  our  God,  that  love 

I  thinL  of  is  an  alien? 

I?     Hear,  then. 
Priest  as  I  am,  I  felt,  and  did  not  did 
Then  my  lips  clinched  in  some  fierce  sense  of  fear, 
And  far  beneath  me  in  unmeasured  depths 
A  faint  light  broke,  like  music,  palpitant. 
You  are  well  out  of  it,  for  this  same  love 
Is  neither  of  the  spirit  nor  the  flesh. 
Yet  hath  an  edge  for  either;  and  the  day. 
In  the  white  hush  of  noontide,  or  when  night 
Plays  with  the  slow  feet  of  the  twilight — night, 
Checked  by  the  moon's  mild  fire,  and  full  of  music 
Such  as  the  leaves  make  when  the  winds  pass  by — 
Both  cease  to  be  in  love's  fierce  period; 

93 


t    ' 


Both  premises  to  one  conclusion — 
In  my  case  being  negative — and  that 
Necessitates,  you  recollect,  despair! 

Since  Christ  died,  fifteen  hundred  and  two  score, 
'Twas  then  she  died,  too,  and  I  cried  "Amen I" 
Folded  my  hands,  and  now  am  cardinal. 

We'll  sup 
With  the  last  sunlight  shooting  through  the  wine; 
And  that  brings  back  to  me  a  matter  heard 
Long,  long  ago  in  fanciful  Provence, 
The  fruit  of  a  woman's  lips,  that  sank  in  the  end 
From  riddles  into  music.      Thus  it  was  .   .   . 


ill 


There  was  a  little  balcony  that  hung 

In  the  great  quiet  night  over  the  moonlit  sea, 

And  she  came  there  for  solitude,  and  brought 

Her  lute  along,  and  as  she  sat  she  sang; 

And  he  half  caught  the  music,  and  approached 

Unthinkingly,  not  knowing  who  it  was ; 

And  thus  the  words  came  throbbingly  to  him : 

There  is  a  dead  hope  in  my  heart, 

Like  a  dead  star  in  the  sky. 
"  God's  light  falls  on  it  day  by  day; 
Thank  God  there's  a  star  in  Heaven,"  men  say, 

"  Whose  fires  will  never  die !  " 
And  it  makes  me  weep,  for  the  thing  is  dead, 
And  men's  praise  is  but  gall  to  me; 

94 


And  yet  God's  light  is  better  by  far 

Than  the  burned-out  fires  of  that  dull  dead  star. 

•  •••••  f 

Quoth  Bishop  Rizzio,  *'  I  do  cry  Amen 

To  your  conclusions.     Faithfully  have  you, 

My  brother,  caught  the  fire  of  Sinai  I" 

"  Well,  are  you  weary?     Yet  one  question  still 

I  ask  you,  as  in  sport,  to  make  you  smile. 

And  give  a  sweet  taste  to  your  dreams  to-night. 

What  single  portion  of  our  corporal  being, 

The  earthly  sheath  of  our  divinity, 

Say  you,  hath  been  the  firmest  true  support. 

The  instrument  and  ally  of  ourselves, 

The  path-constructor  to  eternal  rest? 

"This,"  cried  Carola,  "  this  firm  hand  of  mine, 

Which  like  a  greater  Atlas  doth  hold  up 

A  greater  world,  in  bearing  God's  sweet  flesh 

In  reverent  sacrament!" 

And  Maffio  cried : 
"Amen!  well  spoken.     Yet  this  tongue  of  mine. 
Swaying  the  mighty  masses,  as  the  moon 
Calls  to  the  stubborn  sea-waves,  hath  it  not 
Gained  my  poor  soul  a  better  surety 
Of  life  than  fleshly  functioner  can  give?  " 

And  Timon  cried :  "  Thy  tongue  is  eloquent, 
O  Maffio,  consigning  to  God's  service 
The  honey  of  old  Hybla ;  yet  these  feet, 

9S 


I    I 


1 1 


vScarrcd  by  the  flints  of  Palestine,  have  thrice 

Borne  me  to  God  s  sweet  sepulchre,  and  so 

Thrice  borne  me  nearer  God's  three-seated  throne!" 

Cried  Rizzio,  in  conclusion  unto  them : 

"  My  dim  and  tattered  eyes  have  borne  me  thrice 

Three  thousand  times  to  God  in  His  sweet  book; 

And  though  I  lose  hands,  feet,  and  tongue,  yet  I 

Knock  louder  than  you  all  at  His  shut  door, 

Out-bristling  lions  in  my  confidence, 

My  eyes  the  barristers  in  my  defence!  " 


"  Well  1  well !"  they  cried,  and  so  there  came  a  pause. 

"  Ho,  there!"  cried  Maffio  to  an  ancient  monk. 

Whose  task  it  was  to  heap  upon  the  board 

The  evening  meal.     His  was  no  sinecure 

In  life's  allotments,  and  he  had  grown  old. 

And  had  become  no  wiser.     "  So,"  cried  Maffio, 

"  And  you,  good  brother !    Say  you,  hands  or  feet, 

Dim  eyes  or  palsied  tongue,  have  guided  you 

Nearer  to  God,  and  made  you  confident?" 

And  he  was  quick  abashed  at  the  demand 

From  so  much  purple-plushed  magnificence; 

So  his  old  tongue  refused  to  favor  him 

Till  Maffio  cried:  "Speak,  dotard!" 

When  he  spoke, 

And  answered: 

"  Please  your  reverence,  my  knees.* 

96 


TIMOLEON'S   LOVE. 


CLEON,  the  sculptor,  stood,  one  arm  about 
The  shoulders  of  his  daughter  Cynthia, 
One  weary  elbow  resting  on  a  block 
Of  jagged  marble,  while  upon  his  hand 
Leant  his  white  brow,  whose  wrinkled  charactry 
Spelt  out  the  epitaph  of  youth  and  joy. 
She  was  the  full-kept  promise  of  his  love ; 
Her  red  lips  lending  eloquence  to  words 
More  harsh  than  heavy  discord,  and  her  eyes 
Indorsing  each  sweet  promise  of  her  lips,       • 
Too  bright  in  their  own  matter  to  be  dimmed 
By  trilling  comparison  of  stars, 
Too  dark  in  their  own  night  to  be  out-nigh  ted 
By  the  most  ebon  moodiness  of  night, 
When  she  hath  bid  the  moon  go  hide  herself 
In  some  dank  dungeon  of  unwholesome  mists. 
"Thou  art  not  like  thyself,  my  father!    Say 
What  canker-worm  hath  fed  upon  thy  peace? 
What  caitiff  thought  hath  been  the  self-made  guest 
Of  thy  too  hospitable  heart,  and  turned 
Upon  its  host  with  cold  ingratitude?" 

f  97 


>-■'; 


"Alas!  "  said  Cleon,  "this  same  stubborn  stone 

Hath  locked  that  thought  within  its  milky  keep! 

For  young  Timoleon,  that  youth  who  lives 

To  seek  coy  wisdom,  burning  out  his  eyes 

Like  flickering  torches  in  the  bootless  search, 

Timoleon  hath  commissioned  me  to  carve 

A  statue  of  that  thing  which  he  calls  'truth;' 

Hath  given  direction  that  this  Truth  shall  be 

In  likeness  of  a  long-interred  corpse, 

With  womi-entunnelled  eyes,  and  smiling  jaws 

That  smile,  in  that  they  lack  their  silent  lips 

To  smile  with.     Further,  that  the  pedestal 

Be  skulls,  piled  up  in.o  a  pyramid: 

And  yonder  stands  the  pedestal  of  skulls, 

Beneath  the  silk  deceit  of  that  pale  curtain. 

That  droops  in  long  sad  folds,  as  if  to  weep 

Its  sickly  office. 

But  this  stone 

Doth  still  refuse  the  manufacturing 

Of  that  which  is  to  be  erected  there ; 

Yet  yoimg  Timoleon  hath  builded  him 

A  subterranean  study,  marble-roofed,  •  • 

And  hung  with  sweet  medicinable  lamps, 

Where  solitude  doth  make  a  silent  third 

To  wisdom  and  her  sateless  neophyte; 

And  there  he  purposes  to  place  the  thing 

To  be  presiding  spirit,  sweet  familiar 

To  his  most  sad,  lugubrious  visions." 

08 


m 


"  Sweet  father,  I  have  been  thine  only  child, 
And  so  thrown  much  with  thee  in  my  brief  years 
Of  meted  time ;  and  thus  I  do  profess 
Limited  skill  of  some  sort  in  thine  art, 
Got  more  from  observation  than  aught  else; 
Give  ;//r,  then,  the  commission  of  this  task. 
And  I  will  lay  a  wager  with  old  Death 
That  I  will  work  more  grisly  work  than  he. 
And  he  give  up  his  trade  in  sheer  despite! 
For  I  will  cut  the  marble  into  shape 
At  which  the  frighted  chisel  will  grow  dull, 
And  be  unwilling  minister  to  hands 
That  force  it  to  so  chill  a  task!" 

"So  be  it! 
For  my  part,"  said  old  Cleon,  "  I  have  done 
With  this  phantasmagoria  of  death — 
And  for  the  long  space  of  a  year  will  I 
Conquer  no  form  but  leaping  water-nymph 
And  smiling  hamadryad!     So,  farewell 
To  Truth,  if  Truth  be  such  as  he  hath  said." 
"Then  tell  Timoleon,"  said  sweet  Cynthia, 
"  That  on  the  morrow,  in  his  quiet  nest. 
Wilt  thou  set  up  his  scare-crow  Truth,  to  fright 
Henceforth  all  tender  falsehoods  and  gilt  lies 
From  his  sweet  harvest  of  acquirements. " 
"What,  by  to-morrow  even?" 

"Ay,"  she  replies. 
"To  limn  out  Beauty's  soft  seductiveness 

99 


Might  take  a  longer  time,  but  to  give  form 
To  some  foul  nightmare  such  as  all  have  felt 
In  sleep-distorted  moments,  what  is  that 
But  recklessness  of  finer  tone  and  touch? 
As  one  would  dash  a  passion-driven  hand 
Upon  a  harp's  responsive  strings,  and  wake 
A  fiend  in  that  bright  Paradise  of  sounds, 
Map  e  discord  of  sweet  possibilities, 
And  blow  up  war  in  Music's  brotherhood!" 


Timoleon,  on  the  morrow,  took  his  way 

To  his  new  dwelling,  as  the  sun  went  down. 

Stripping  of  all  their  purple  uniform 

His  soldiery  of  clouds,  until  they  looked 

Quite  woe-bcgone,  like  self-stung  renegades 

That  had  gone  over  to  advancing  night. 

Timoleon 's  brow  was  shaded  o'er  with  cares 

Which  hung  like  murky  mists  upon  the  face 

Of  some  fair  mountain-pool,  and  his  damp  locks 

Lay  mutinously  heaped  upon  his  head, 

Save  one  or  two,  which  fell  about  his  eyes 

Like  long  rich  grasses  o'er  twin  springs  of  thought, 

Peering  into  their  calm  transparency, 

And  ruffling  that  calmness  with  a  kiss. 

In  the  quiet  midst  of  self-reposing  gloom 
Stood  the  pale  mimic  of  deceiving  Truth. 
Sweet  Cynthia  herself  stood,  pedestalled 

lOO 


By  skulls,  and  thereby  seemed  more  softly  fair, 

In  the  stern  concord  of  antithesis. 

For  she  did  nourish  love  of  this  poor  child 

Who  cried  out  for  a  bauble;  knowing  not 

That  love  of  wide-spread  popularity, 

To  be  the  theme  for  gaping  in  a  crowd. 

Is  oft  mistook  for  most  divine  resolve; 

And  so  doth  pave  the  highway  unto  hell, 

Upon  whose  every  stone  is  writ  "  I  will," 

Until  the  multiplied  affirmative 

Hath  negatived  itself  and  damned  the  speaker. 

Timoleon  stood,  as  though  in  mimicry 

Of  purblind  ignorance,  who  comes  upon 

The  thing  he  sought,  and  knows  it  not;  then  said; 

"  Ha!  Cleon  hath  mistook  my  drift  most  sadly— 

For  this  poor  manufacture  of  his  brain 

Hath  more  the  posture  and  self-confidence 

Of  sophistry,— that  pretty  cloak  of  lies; 

And,  in  the  very  climax  of  deceit. 

He  hath  here  wedded  color  unto  form, 

And  stained  the  virgin  marble  with  a  taint 

Of  worm-predestined  nature.     Oh!  alas! 

Scale  off  the  painted  richness  of  a  cheek— 

What  have  we  but  the  very  commonplace 

Of  dust  and  creaking  sinews,  that  grow  stiff 

And  weary  of  their  several  tasks  so  soon? 

Tear  off  the  alleviating  tapestry 

lOI 


That  doth  hang  o'er  the  eyes — what  have  we  then 

But  staring  pupils  in  a  sea  of  white, 

Looking  like  some  sweet  fruit  that  hath  been  plucked 

From  its  o'er-sheltering  leaves,  and  hung  aloft 

In  bald  desertion'     All  things  so  deceive  us?" 

"  'Tis  thou  that  art  deceived,"  cried  Cynthia, 

"  Because  lush  damask  lies  upon  a  cheek — 

Yet  knewest  me  not — but  bone  doth  lie  beneath. 

Oh!  are  the  myriad  pearly  diadems 

That  lie  within  the  shine  of  yonder  sea 

To  be  spread  out  in  auction  to  thine  eyes, 

Because  thou  hast  cried  'liar  '  to  the  sea? 

Poor  worm,  that  hath  mistook  its  daily  food, 

Feeding  on  bitter  aloes,  till  all  things 

Did  sting  its  palate  with  the  memory 

Of  its  diurnal  nourishment!     Poor  toad 

That  hath  sucked  poison  in  its  native  fens. 

Until  the  stars  stagnate  within  their  spheres 

To  his  foul  horned  eyes!  " 

"Sweet  lecturer!" 
Cried  out  Timoleon,  "  were  I  a  toad 
I  had  not  thought  thee  but  a  marble  dream ! 
Were  I  a  worm,  I'd  lay  me  at  thy  feet, 
And  starve  upon  the  chances  of  thy  death, 
To  feast  upon  thy  treasures !     As  I  am,  v 

I  can  but  offer  thee  a  pupil  who 
Hath  learnt  his  lesson,  and  but  asks  thy  leave 
To  tell  it  in  thine  ear. 

I02 


Sit  we  upon 

These  skulls,  that  love  therefore  be  sweeter  yet 

Upon  so  sour  a  camping-place.     Just  so. 

Wilt  thou  then  be  addition  to  mj^  creed, 

Changing  in  that  addition  all  before? 

Yet  say  not  in  gross  words,  that  ill  conform 

With  these  most  silent  witnesses,  but  turn, 

As  they  to  one  another— be  our  eyes 

Commissioners  to  make  that  treaty  good 

Of  which  my  lips  make  purport  unto  thine. 

So  yield  thee,  while  I  flatter  these  poor  arms 

That  they  at  last  have  grasped  and  circled  Truth." 
1889. 

103 


1   't 


FAREWELL  VERSES. 


II 


f 

'  i  !    ■■!■ 
■  1    ,1 


TO 


OH !  would  that  we  could  pierce  the  gloom 
That  clouds  the  pathway  to  the  tomo, 
And  mark  the  course  our  feet  must  tread 
Before  they  rest  among  the  dead; 
And  where  we  smile,  and  where  we  weep; 
And  where  we  dream,  in  waking  sleep, 
Before  we  sleep  upon  the  shore 
Where  slumberers  dream  and  wake  no  morel 
Alas  I  from  life's  storm-beaten  crest 
We  fix  our  eyes  upon  the  west, 
Where  our  own  sun  must  one  day  set, 
Though  pausing  in  the  zenith  yet, 
But  see  no  path  amid  the  mist, 
No  shore  by  distant  ocean  kissed ; 
No  limit  to  that  mortal  thing 
Whose  hourly  knell  our  heart-beats  ring; 
No  silence  for  that  whispered  song 

Whose  music  cannot  whisper  long: 

104 


No  rest  for  that,  whose  restless  sigh 

Proclaims  it  but  a  thinj?  to  die. 

Yet  there  is  still  an  echo  borne, 

And  still  we  catch  a  note  forlorn— 

A  whisper  from  that  lone  retreat 

Where  darkling  shore  and  ocean  meet; 

And  in  red  revelry  and  rout, 

When  hearts  have  shut  remembrance  out, 

And  souls  have  sought  the  loved  caress 

Of  one  brief  hour's  forgetfulness, 

'Tis  then,  when  we  have  turned  our  eyes 

From  where  the  past  in  ashes  lies, 

That  cheeks  are  clammy  with  the  spray 

That  dashes  palsied  time  away, 

And  curls  about  the  panting  heart. 

My  friend,  all  human  souls  must  part; 
The  echo  of  our  being's  knell 
Is  borne  upon  that  word  "  Farewell." 
But,  as  the  ocean  glimmers  yet 
When  yonder  paling  moon  hath  set, 
And  as  the  clouds  still  blush  with  day, 
Though  twilight  long  hath  passed  away; 
So  love  and  friendship,  though  they  die 
Yet  live,  if  there  be  but  one  sigh 
To  catch  the  light  still  feebly  shed, 
And  bear  the  impress  of  the  dead. 
I  too  have  felt  ambition's  sting 

105 


i 


fl 


When  crushed  by  her  enfeebled  wing; 
Yet,  tempted  still,  with  eagle  eye 
She  searches  glory's  fading  sky, 
And  marks  the  star  she  cannot  gain — 
Then  dies  but  to  be  born  again. 
I  too  have  breathed  the  galling  sigh 
Of  time-enshackled  misery, 
And  felt  my  spirit  many  a  day 
Half  turn  within  its  grave  of  clay, 
And,  maddened  by  the  numbed  pain. 
Fall  fainting  into  sleep  again ! 


Yet, ,  when  we  say  farewell, 

'Tis  mine,  and  mine  alone  to  tell 

To  sorrow's  ear  my  loss;  to  thee 

The  meed  of  human  prophecy. 

Thy  foot  is  where  mine  cannot  stand. 

Upon  no  shifting  path  of  sand, 

Nor  wandering  on  the  treacherous  shore 

Of  that  which  tbou  can'st  ne'er  bridge  o'er. 

Thy  faith  is  what  mine  canr  ^t  be. 

Thy  spirit  in  its  sphere  is  free. 

Rebellious  cui  ses  cannot  .blight 

Thy  lips,  nor  dark  despair  alight 

Upon  the  temple  of  thy  creed. 

My  friend,  may  thy  stanch  spirit  speed 

Thy  footsteps  on,  and  like  a  star 

1 06 


I't  ! 


Whose  silvered  breath  is  borne  out  far, 
May  that  success  which  breathes  in  thee 
Bear  thy  reflected  light  to  me, 
And  write,  like  old  Belshazzar's  doom, 
A  "  Pax  Vobiscum"  on  my  tomb! 

SEWANEE,  1888. 

W7 


APPENDIX. 


FAREWELL    ADDRESS   TO  AN   OLD 

COATEE.* 

[Written  for  Undergraduates'    Day,  '87.    University  of  the 
South,  Sewanee,  Tenn.J 

pAREWELL,  Old  Coat,  farewell  forever, 
1        And  yet  'tis  hard  that  we  must  part; 
For  we've  been  comrades  long  together. 
Breast  to  breast,  and  heart  to  heart. 

We  have  braved,  all  uncomplaining, 

Summer  sun  and  wintry  blast ; 
Now,  Old  Coat,  thy  star  is  waning, 

And  we  two  must  part  at  last. 

With  glory  thou  wast  once  invested  ; 

So,  old  friend,  it  might  be  still, 
Had  not  we  two  marched  together 

Many  an  hour  of  "  extra  drill. " 

*  This  poem,  immature  as  it  is,  finds  a  fitting  place  in  an 
appendix  because  of  its  association  with  the  poet's  Alma 
Mater,  and  the  warm  requests  of  many  of  his  college  friends 
to  have  it  put  m  print.— Ed. 

109 


If 


I 


.  .»)    i 


There,  Old  Coat,  'twas  first  we  quarrelled, 
The  sun  was  hot,  you  recollect; 

And  I  used  some  strong  expressions 
That  hurt  your  pride  and  self-respect. 

So  you  made  it  hotter  for  me, 

And  when  the  extra  drill  was  o'er, 

I  tore  thee  off,  old  friend,  and  threw  thee 
In  the  dust  upon  the  floor. 

But  we  made  it  up,  old  comrade. 

At  the  next  "  Battalion  Hop," 
Where  all  night  we  danced  together. 

Till  morning  forced  us  both  to  stop. 

And  fair  hands  lay  on  thy  shoulder 

Just  where  the  rusty  rifle  lay; 
With  such  "  arms  "  as  that,  old  comrade. 

We'd  march  **  extras  "  every  day! 

And  we  tripped  a  "double  quick," 
Lightly  to  "  Blue  Danube's  River;  " 

Then  we  marched  at  "common  time," 
Out  where  the  silvery  moonbeams  quiver. 


1 


We  have  many  a  recollection. 

You  of  me  and  I  of  you ; 

But  we've  promised  to  each  other 

To  be  silent  ""riends  and  true. 

zzo 


"Gown"  will  never  sit  as  lightly 
As  thou  hast  in  days  gone  by; 

Dreams  of  glory  with  thee  perish, 
Bright  illusions  with  thee  die.  ' 

Sell  thee,  comrade?     Sell  thee?    Never! 

Thou  art  scarcely  worth  a  V; 
While  thou  hast  sweet  recollections, 

Tender  memories  for  me. 

So,  Old  Coat,  farewell  forever! 

We  must  bow  to  destiny; 
Like  true  friends  we've  served  together. 

Like  true  friends  we'll  say  good-by. 

And  I'll  place  thee  in  seme  corner. 

Safe  from  iconoclastic  eye, 
Where  thou  canst  count  the  dust  of  ages 

In  oblivion's  sanctity. 

Thou  shall  be  a  fitting  pillow. 

Where  memories  of  the  past  may  sleep; 
Where  the  ghosts  of  by-gone  "  extras  " 

At  midnight  hour  may  wake  and  weep. 

We  have  scarce  a  moment  left  us. 
My  heart,  old  comrade,  throbs  thy  knell; 

And  thine,  I  know,  is  breaking  also, 
Taps  are  counding— Fare  thee  well ! 


Ill 


